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THE    MOUNTAINS. 


The   Mountains, 


^  Collection  of  }3ocm3. 


'  Let  the  huge  mountains  throw  their  ruRged  arms 
Around  thee,  while  their  virtue  goeth  out 
Into  thy  heart  with  hidden  sacraments  !  " 

F.  W.  Faber. 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS      BROTHERS. 

1S76. 


Copyright, 

By  Roberts  Brothers. 

1876. 


Cambridge : 
Press  of  John  Wilson  &=  Son. 


MORy,  when  before  the  sun  his  orb  unshrouds^ 
Swift  as  a  beacon  torch  the  ii^ht  has  sped, 

Kindling  the  dusky  summits  of  the  clouds 
Each  to  a  fiery  red; 

The  slanted  coiunins  of  the  noon-day  li^^ht 
Let  down  into  the  bosom  of  the  hills  j 

Or  sunset^  that  with  golden  vapor  bright 
The  purple  mountains  fills^  — 

These  fnade  him  say  :  If  God  has  so  arrayed 
A  fading  world  that  quickly  passes  by, 

Such  rich  provision  of  delight  has  ?nade 
For  every  human  eye,  — 

What  shall  the  eyes  that  wait  for  Him  survey^ 
Where  His  own  presetice  gloriously  appears. 

In  worlds  that  were  not  founded  for  a  day. 
But  for  eternal  years  f 

R.  C.  Trench. 


CONTENTS. 


A  Hymn J.  G.  Whittier    . 

Among  the  Mountains W.  R.  Alger  .     . 

Sonnets :  — 

1.  The  Distant  Mountain-range      .     .     .  Lucy  Larcom 

2.  The  Presence „  ,, 

3.  The  Farewell „  „ 

The  Mountain  Herdsman IV.  IVordsworth 

A  May  Carol .  A .  de  Vere      .     . 

"The  Hills  of  the  Lord" W.  C  Gannett    . 

Pastor  ^ternus A.  de  Vere      .     . 

Mountain  Scenery y.  Keble      .     .     . 

Hymn  of  a  Hermit 7  Sterling      .     . 

The  Mountains B.  Taylor   .     .     . 

Mountain  Chorus H-  IV.  Longfellow 

Our  Mountain ^V.  /Mlinghim     . 

Coir-nan-Uriskin Sir  IV.  ,Scott 

Lines  written  in  a  Highland  Glen     .     .     .     .  J.  Wilson   . 

A  Morning  in  Oregon y.  Miller     . 

Bugle  Song A.  Tennyson 

On  the  Heights R-  Buchanan 

Nearing  the  Snow-line O    IV.  Holmes 

HymnbeforeSunrisein  the  ValeofChamounix  ^-  T   Coleridge  . 

Night  in  the  Alps Lord  Byron    .     . 

Sunrise IV.  Shakspeare    , 

Sunrise  on  the  Hills H.  IV.  Longfellow 

The  Passing  of  the  Wind F.  fV.  Faber   .     . 

A  Summer  Storm  in  the  Mountains       ...  7    Thomson     .     . 

TheTfOsachs //'.  IVordsworth 

Sunset  in  the  Mountains  after  a  Stonn      .     .  W.  IVordsworth 


Vlll 


COXTENTS. 


PAGE 

Tired Alice  Cavtpbell    .     .  51 

God  is  Beautiful R-  Buc/uifian  ...  52 

Summer  by  the  Lakeside  :  — 

1.  Noon y.  G.  Whittier     .     .  53 

2.  Evening ,,            ,,        •     •     •  55 

Snowdon,  in  tlie  Pass  of  Llanberis  .    .     .     .  I^.  IF.  Faber   ...  57 

At  Wiiinipesaukee Liicy  Larco^n       .     .  57 

Lines  written  at  the  Village  of  Passignano,  on 

the  Lake  of  Thrasymene     .     •     .     .  J?.  C.  Trench  ...  60 

Spring  on  the  Peak R.  Browning  ...  61 

Vesuvius R.  C.  Trench  ...  62 

Como B.  Taylor   ....  63 

Radicofani W.  IV.  Story       .     .  64 

In  the  Euganean  Hills,  North  Italy      .     .     .  P.  B   Shelley  ...  65 

Sunset Lord  Byron     ...  68 

Mon.idnoc R.  IV.  Emerson  .     .  bq 

Monadnoc's  Welcome R.  ^V-  Ejnersott  .     .  70 

St.  Mary's  Lake Sir  VV.  Scott  ...  72 

Cadwallon's  Hut R.  Southey       ...  74 

In  the  Trosachs Sir  IV.  Scott  ...  75 

The  Fiery  Birth  of  the  Hills R.  Bucha/ian  ...  78 

Glengarriff Sir  A .  de  Vere    .     .  79 

The  Rising  of  the  Hills P.  G.  Hamerton       .  79 

The  Alps trom  Milan A.  Tetinysoti    ...  So 

Mists  on  Ben  Lomond P.  G.  Hatnerton      .  So 

Mount  of  Olives //■  Vmig-han    .     .     .81 

An  Italian  Sunset P.  B.  Slielley  ...  82 

The  Rainbow    .     .  * T.  Biirbidge    ...  83 

A  Still  Day  in  Autumn S.  H.  Whitman  .     .  85 

Dying  Summer M.  BetJia7n-E dwards  86 

Evening  in  Ireland Rev-  Dr.  Murray    .  87 

Prose  and  Song y.  Sterling      ...  87 

Extract  from  "The  Lost  Bower"     .     .    .     .  E.  B   Browning      .  8S 

Shasta yoagitin  Miller    ,     .  89 

Among  the  Fir-trees Eraser's  Magazine  90 

The  Brook  and  the  Wave H.  IV.  Longfellow  .  92 

The  Mountain  Heart' s-ease Bret  Harte      ...  93 

Harebells L.  D.  Pychowska     .  94 

Up  in  the  Wild A.  D.  T.  Whitney  95 

A  Flower  from  the  Catskills E.  W.  C 96 

A  Mountain  Cataract S.  T.  Coleridge       .  98 

The  Rivers  Lament R.  M. 99 


CONTENTS. 


The  Pine 

Larch  Trees  .... 
To  the  River  Arve 
The  Alpine  Flowers  . 
Compensation  .  .  . 
Lessons  from  the  Gorse 
To  a  Pine-tree  .  .  . 
The  Lark  .... 
Mountain  Pictures  :  — 

1.  Franconia  from  the  Pemigewasset 

2.  Monadnock  from  Wachusett 

Above 

Sanct  Margen 

A  German  "  Bad "      .     .     . 

Consecrated 

The  Great  St.  Bernard  .  . 
The  Alpine  Maiden  .  .  . 
The  Under-world  .... 
The  Home  of  "  II  Curato" 
The  Centaur's  Cave    .     .     . 

Coronach 

A  Vision  of  Helicon  .  .  . 
The  Fairies:   A  Child's  Song 

Cathair  Fhargus 

The  Trumpets  of  Doolkarnein 

From  the  Passage  of  Hannibal  over 

The  Burial  of  Moses  .... 

A  Legend  of  Bregenz      .     .     . 

The  Cavern  of  the  three  Tells 

The  Lover  among  the  Hills     . 

Two  on  the  Mountain 

In  the  Pass   .... 

Thoralf  and  Synnov  . 

The  Braes  o'  Gleniffer 

My  ain  Mountain  Land 

Above  and  Below  .     . 

The  Two  Homes  .     . 

The  Golden  Island  :   Arran 

To  the  Peaks  of  Otter 

Life  and  Death      .     . 

The  Other  Side     .    . 

Entrance  to  the  Purgatory  of  St.  Patr 


from 


Ay: 


the 


ck 


.  //'.  ;r.  Story 

.  F.  ir.  Faber 

.  W.  C.  Bryant 

.  L.  //.  Sigoiir>tey 

.  j^fetastiisio 

.  E.  B.  Browning 

.  7.  R.  Lowell 

.  7.  Hogg    . 


.     7.  G.  Whittier 


Cainoens 
G.  Eliot 


Good  ll'ords  . 
The  Month     . 
S.  Rogers  •     . 
A.  C.  Brackett 
S.  Rogers 
IV.  VV.  Story 
Onomacrittis 
Sir  IV.  Scott 
M.Arnold     . 
IV.  AllingJiam  . 
D.  M.  M.  Craik 
Leigh  Hunt   . 
Alps     Silius  Italic  us 

C.  F.  Alexander 
A.  A.  Procter 
F.  H emails     . 
Petrarch   .     . 
R.  Browning 


H.  H. 


H .  H-  Boyescn 
R .  Ta  n  na  h  ill 
T.  Elliott  .     . 
7-  R-  Lowell 
B.  Taylor 

D.  M.  M.  Craik 
7.  T.  IVorthington 

E.  Sjogren  .  . 
7.  IV.  Uuidwick 
Calderon    .     .     . 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Beyond R'  Terry  Cooke      .  173 

The  Storm  is  Past F.  IV.  Faber      .     .  173 

Moiintain-top C.  G.  A  mes    .     .     •  174 

Mountain  Tarns F.  W.  Faber      .    .  175 

Sonnet /?.  C.  Trenck     .     .  178 

The  B.>rder  of  the  Wilderness L.  D   Pychawska  .  179 

Nirvana y.  IF.  Chadzvick    .  180 

Over  the  Mountain A.  A.  Procter    .     .  183 

Sunset F.  R.  Haver  gal     .  184 

Sunset  on  the  Bearcamp y.  G.  IVkiitier  .     .  1S6 

Quiet  Waters R.  Buchanan      .     .  189 

Sunset  Thoughts E.  IF.  C 190 

Benediction A.  de  Vere    ...  191 


THE    MOUNTAINS. 


A     HYMN. 

'T^HE  harp  at  Nature's  advent  strung 

-*-      Has  never  ceased  to  play  ; 
The  song  the  stars  of  morninfj  suns: 
Has  never  died  away. 

And  prayer  is  made,  and  praise  is  given. 

By  all  things  near  and  far ; 
The  ocean  looketh  up  to  heaven, 

And  mirrors  every  star. 

Its  waves  are  kneeling  on  the  strand 

As  kneels  the  human  knee, 
Their  white  locks  bowing  to  the  sand,  — 

The  priesthood  of  the  sea  ! 

They  pour  their  glittering  treasures  forth, 
Their  gifts  of  pearl  they  bring ; 

And  all  the  listening  hills  of  earth 
Take  up  the  song  they  sing. 

The  green  earth  sends  her  incense  up 
From  many  a  mountain  shrine  ; 

From  folded  leaf  and  dewy  cup 
She  pours  her  sacred  wine. 


THE  MOUNTAINS. 

The  mists  above  the  morning  rills 

Rise  white  as  wings  of  prayer  ; 
The  altar-curtains  of  the  hills 

Are  sunsefs  purple  air. 

The  winds  with  hymns  of  praise  are  loud, 

Or  low  with  sobs  of  pain,  — ■ 
The  thunder-organ  of  the  cloud, 

The  dropping  tears  of  rain. 

With  drooping  head  and  branches  crossed, 

The  twilight  forest  grieves, 
Or  speaks  with  tongues  of  Pentecost 

From  all  its  sunlit  leaves. 

The  blue  sky  is  the  temple's  arch, 

Its  transept  earth  and  air, 
The  music  of  its  starry  march 

The  chorus  of  a  prayer. 

So  Nature  keeps  the  reverent  frame 

With  which  her  years  began, 
And  all  her  signs  and  voices  shame 

The  prayerless  heart  of  man. 

J.  G.  Whittier. 


AMONG   THE    MOUNTAINS. 

"IV/f  Y  way  in  opening  dawn  I  took 

-^     Between  the  hills,  beside  a  brook  ; 
The  peaks  one  sun  was  climbing  o'er, 
The  dew-drops  showed  ten  millions  more. 


T 


SOXXETS.  13 

The  mountain  valley  is  a  vase 

Which  God  has  trimmed  with  rarest  grace  ; 

And,  kneeling  in  the  taintless  air, 

I  drink  celestial  blessings  there. 

Behold  that  guiltless  bird  !     What  brings 
Him  here  ?     He  comes  to  wash  his  wings. 
Let  me  too  wash  my  wings  with  prayer, 
And  cleanse  them  from  foul  dust  and  care. 

To  one  long  time  in  city  pent 
The  lesson  seems  from  heaven  sent. 
For  pinions  clean  yon  bird  takes  care  : 
Of  soul  defiled  do  thou  beware  ! 

VV.   R.  Alger. 


SONNETS. 

I. 

The  Distant  Mountain-range. 

HEY  beckon  from  their  sunset  domes  afar. 
Light's  royal  priesthood,  the  eternal  hills  : 


Though  born  of  earth,  robed  of  the  sky  they  are  ; 

And  the  anointing  radiance  heaven  distils 

On  their  high  brows,  the  air  with  glory  fills. 
The  portals  of  the  West  are  opened  wide  ; 

And  lifted  up,  absolved  from  earthly  ills 
All  thoughts,  a  reverent  throng  to  worship  glide. 

The  hills  interpret  heavenly  mysteries. 
The  mysteries  of  Light,  —  an  open  book 

Of  Revelation  :  see,  its  leaves  unfold 

With  crimson  borderings,  and  lines  of  gold  ! 
Where  the  rapt  reader,  though  soul-deep  his  look. 

Dreams  of  a  glory  deeper  than  he  sees. 


14  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

II. 

The   Presenxe. 

The  mountain  statelier  lifts  his  blue-veiled  head, 
While,  drawing  near,  we  meet  him  face  to  face. 

Here,  as  on  holy  ground,  we  softly  tread ; 
Yet,  with  a  tender  and  paternal  grace. 
He  gives  the  wild-flowers  in  his  lap  a  place : 

They  climb  his  sides,  as  fondled  infants  might, 
And  wind  about  him  in  a  hght  embrace 

Their  summer-drapery,  pink  and  clinging  white. 
Great  hearts  have  largest  room  to  bless  the  small ; 

Strong  natures  give  the  weaker  home  and  rest : 

So  Christ  took  little  children  to  his  breast, 
And,  with  a  reverence  more  profound,  we  fall 

In  the  majestic  presence  that  can  give 

Truth's  simplest  message  :   "  'Tis  by  love  ye  live." 


in. 

The  Farewell. 

Now  ends  the  hour's  communion,  near  and  high  : 
We  have  heard  whispers  from  the  mountain's  heart, 

And  hfe  henceforth  is  nobler.     With  a  sigh 
Of  grateful  sadness,  let  us  now  depart 
And  seek  our  lower  levels.     Rills  that  start 

From  this  Hill's  bosom,  there  reflect  the  sky ; 
And  his  deep  shadows  greener  grace  impart 

To  the  sweet  vale  which  doth  below,  him  lie. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  HERDSMAN.  15 

One  farewell  glance  from  far.     The  hills  are  fled  ! 
Hid  in  the  folds  of  yon  funereal  cloud. 
A  moment  leans  the  Loftiest  from  his  shroud :  — 

"  Our  thunders  cleanse  the  valley,"  lo,  he  saith  : 
"  'Tis  not  alone  by  smiles  that  life  is  fed  : 

Awe  fills  the  sanctuary  of  deep  faith." 

Lucy  Larcom. 


THE    MOUNTAIN    HERDSMAN. 

"pARLY  had  he  learned 

-^^     To  reverence  the  volume  that  displays 

The  mystery,  the  life  which  cannot  die ; 

But  in  the  mountains  did  \\t.feel  his  faith. 

All  things,  responsive  to  the  writing,  there 

Breathed  immortality,  revolving  life, 

And  greatness  still  revolving;  infinite  ; 

There  littleness  was  not ;  the  least  of  things 

Seemed  infinite  ;  and  there  his  spirit  shaped 

Her  prospects,  nor  did  he  believe,  —  he  saw. 

What  wonder  if  his  being  thus  became 

Sublime  and  comprehensive  !     Low  desires, 

Low  thouglits  had  there  no  place  :  yet  was  his  heart 

Lowly ;  for  he  was  meek  in  gratitude. 

Oft  as  he  called  those  ecstasies  to  mind. 

And  whence  they  flowed  ;  and  from  them  he  acquired 

Wisdom,    which    works    thro'    patience  ;     thence    he 

learned 
In  oft  recurring  hours  of  sober  thought 
To  look  on  Nature  with  a  humble  heart, 
Self-questioned  where  it  did  not  understand, 
And  with  a  superstitious  eye  of  love. 

W.  Wordsworth. 


1 6  THE   MOUXTAINS. 


A  MAY  CAROL. 

TS  thi.s,  indeed,  our  ancient  earth  ? 
-^     Or  have  we  died  in  sleep  and  risen? 
Has  Earth,  like  man,  her  second  birth  ? 
Rises  the  palace  from  the  prison  ? 

Hills  beyond  hills  ascend  the  skies  ; 

In  winding  valleys,  heaven  suspended, 
Huije  forests,  rich  as  sunset's  dyes, 

With  rainbow-braided  clouds  are  blended. 

From  melting  snows  through  coverts  dank 
White  torrents  rush  to  yon  blue  mere, 

Flooding  its  glazed  and  grassy  bank. 
The  mirror  of  the  milk-white  steer. 

What  means  it  ?     Glory,  sweetness,  might  ? 

Not  these,  but  something  holier  far  — 
Shadows  of  Him,  that  Light  of  light, 

Whose  priestly  vestment  all  things  are. 

The  veil  of  sense  transparent  grows  ; 

God's  face  shines  out  that  veil  behind, 
Like  yonder  sea-reflected  snows  : 

Here  man  must  worship,  or  be  blind. 

Aubrey  de  Veke. 

"THE    HILLS    OF   THE    LORD." 

/^~^0D  ploughed  one  day  with  an  earthquake, 
^^     And  drove  His  furrows  deep  ! 


The  huddling  plains  upstarted, 
The  hills  were  all  aleap  ! 


"77//:    IlffJ.S   OF   THE   LOROr  17 

But  that  is  the  mountains'  secret 

Age-hidden  in  their  breast  : 
"  God's  peace  is  everlasting  " 

Are  the  dream- wortls  of  their  rest. 

He  hath  made  them  the  haunt  of  beauty, 

The  home  elect  of  His  grace  ; 
He  spreadeth  His  mornings  on  them  ; 

His  sunsets  light  their  face. 

His  thunders  tread  in  music 

Of  footfalls  echoing  hmg, 
And  carry  majestic  greeting 

Around  the  silent  throng. 

His  winds  bring  messages  to  them, — 

Wild  storm- news  from  the  main  ; 
They  sing  it  down  to  the  valleys 

In  the  love-song  of  the  rain. 

Green  tribes  from  far  come  trooping. 

And  over  the  uplands  flock  ; 
He  has  woven  the  zones  together 

As  a  robe  for  His  risen  rock. 

They  are  nurseries  for  young  rivers, 

Nests  for  His  flying  cloud. 
Homesteads  for  new  born  races, 

Masterful,  free,  and  proud. 

The  people  of  tired  cities 

Come  up  to  their  shrines  and  pray  ; 
God  freshens  again  within  them. 

As  He  passes  by  all  day. 


1 8  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

And,  lo  I  I  have  caught  their  secret  — 

The  beauty  deeper  than  all  ! 
This  faith  —  that  Life's  hard  moments, 

When  the  jarring  sorrows  befall, 

Are  but  God  ploughing  His  mountains  ; 

And  those  mountains  3'et  shall  be 
The  source  of  His  grace  and  freshness, 

And  His  peace  everlasting  to  me. 

William  C.  Gannett. 

PASTOR  ^TERNUS. 

T  SCALED  the  hills;  no  murky  blot, 
•*•     No  mist,  obscured  the  diamond  air : 
One  time,  O  God !  those  hills  were  not  ; 

Thou  spak'st,  — at  Thy  command  they  were  ! 

•     O'er  ebon  lakes  the  ledges  hung  ; 

More  high  were  summits  white  WMth  snow : 
Some  peak  unseen  along  them  flung 
A  crowned  shadow,  creeping  slow. 

For  hours  I  watched  it ;  vague  and  vast, 
From  ridge  to  ridge,  the  mountains  o'er, 

The  king-like  semblance  forward  passed  : 
A  shepherd's  crook  for  staff  it  bore. 

O  Thou  that  leadest  like  a  sheep 
Thine  Israel !  all  the  earth  is  Thine  ! 

The  mystic  manhood  still  must  sweep 
The  worlds  with  healing  shade  divine. 

The  airy  pageant  dies  with  day  : 

The  hills,  the  worlds  themselves,  must  die ; 
But  Thou  remainest  such  alway  : 

Thy  love  is  from  eternity.  Aubrey  de  Verk. 


MOUNTAIN  SCENERY.  19 


MOUNTAIN    SCENERY. 

"TT  7'HERE  is  thy  favor'd  haunt,  eternal  Voice, 

The  region  of  thy  choice, 
Where,  undisturb'd  by  sin  and  earth,  the  soul 

Owns  thine  entire  control  ?  — 
'Tis  on  the  mountain's  summit  dark  and  high, 

When  storms  are  hurrying  by  : 
'Tis  'mid  the  strong  foundations  of  the  earth. 

Where  torrents  have  their  birth. 

No  sounds  of  worldly  toil  ascending  there 

Mar  the  full  burst  of  prayer  ; 
Lone  Nature  feels  that  she  may  freely  breathe, 

And  round  us  and  beneath 
Are  heard  her  sacred  tones  :  the  fitful  sweep 

Of  winds  across  the  steep. 
Through  wnther'd  bents  —  romantic  note  and  clear, 

Meet  for  a  hermit's  ear,  — 

The  wheeling  kite's  wild  solitary  cry, 

And,  scarcely  heard  so  high. 
The  dashing  waters  when  the  air  is  still, 

From  many  a  torrent  rill 
That  winds  unseen  beneath  the  shaggy  fell, 

Track'd  by  the  blue  mist  well : 
Such  sounds  as  make  deep  silence  in  the  heart. 

For  thought  to  do  her  part. 

'Tis  then  \ve  hear  the  voice  of  God  within 

Pleading  with  care  and  sin  : 
"  Child  of  my  love  !  how  have  I  wearied  thee  ? 

Why  wilt  thou  err  from  me  ? 


1  THE  MOUNTAIXS. 

Have  I  not  brought  ihee  from  the  house  of  slaves, 

Parted  the  drowning  waves, 
And  set  my  saints  before  thee  in  the  way. 

Lest  thou  should'st  faint  or  stray  ? 

''What  !  was  the  promise  made  to  thee  alone  ? 

Art  thou  th'  excepted  one  ? 
An  heir  of  glory  without  grief  or  pain  ? 

O  vision  false  and  vain  ! 
There  lies  thy  cross  ;  beneath  it  meekly  bow  ; 

It  fits  thy  stature  now  : 
Who  scornful  pass  it  with  averted  eye, 

'Twill  crush  them  by  and  by. 

"  Raise  thy  repining  eyes,  and  take  true  measure 

Of  thine  eternal  treasure  ; 
The  Father  of  thy  Lord  can  grudge  thee  nought, 

The  world  for  thee  was  bought, 
And  as  this  landscape  broad —  earth,  sea,  and  sky  — 

All  centres  in  thine  eye, 
So  all  God  does,  if  rightly  understood, 

Shall  work  thy  final  good." 

J.  Keble. 


HYMN    OF   A   HERMIT. 

'T^HOU  Lord,  who  rear'st  the  mountains'  height, 
-*-       And  mak'st  the  cHff  with  sunshine  bright, 
Oh  grant  that  I  may  own  Thy  hand, 
No  less  in  every  grain  of  sand  ! 

With  forests  huge  of  dateless  time 
Thy  will  has  hung  each  peak  sublime  ; 
But  withered  leaves  beneath  a  tree 
Have  tongues  that  tell  as  loud  of  Thee. 


THE  MOUXTAIXS.  21 

While  clouds  to  clouds  through  ages  call, 
Thou  pour'st  the  thundering  waterfall ; 
But  every  silent  drop  of  dew 
Reflects  Thy  ordered  world  to  view. 

In  all  the  immense,  the  strange,  the  old, 
Thy  presence  careless  men  behold  ; 
In  all  the  little,  weak,  and  mean, 
By  faith  be  Tliou  as  clearly  seen. 

Teach,  Thou  !  that  not  a  leaf  can  grow 
Till  life  from  Thee  within  it  flow  ; 
That  not  a  speck  of  dust  can  be, 
O  Fount  of  Being  !  sav-e  by  Thee. 

J.  Sterling. 

THE    MOUNTAINS. 

(From  "The  Masque  of  the  Gods.") 

T  TOWE'ER  the  wheels  of  Time  go  round, 

-*•  -*-     We  cannot  wholly  be  discrowned. 

We  bind,  in  form,  and  hue,  and  height, 

The  Finite  to  the  Infinite, 

And,  lifted  on  our  shoulders  bare, 

The  races  breathe  an  ampler  air. 

The  arms  that  clasped,  the  lips  that  kissed, 

Have  vanished  from  the  morning  mist ; 

The  dainty  shapes  that  flashed  and  passed 

In  spray  the  plunging  torrent  cast. 

Or  danced  through  woven  gleam  and  shade, 

The  vapors  and  the  sunbeams  braid. 

Grow  thin  and  pale:  each  holy  haunt 

Of  gods  or  spirits  ministrant 


THE   MOUXTAIXS. 

Hath  something  lost  of  ancient  awe  ; 
Yet  from  the  stooping  heavens  we  draw 
A  beauty,  mystery,  and  might, 
Time  cannot  change  nor  worship  slight. 
The  gold  of  dawn  and  sunset  sheds 
Unearthly  glory  on  our  heads  ; 
The  secret  of  the  skies  we  keep  ; 
And  whispers,  round  each  lonely  steep, 
Allure  and  promise,  yet  withhold, 
What  bard  and  prophet  never  told. 
While  man's  slow  ages  come  and  go, 
Our  dateless  chronicles  of  snow 
Their  changeless,  old  inscription  show, 
And  men  therein  forever  see 
The  unread  speech  of  Deity. 


Bayard  Taylor. 


MOUNTAIN    CHORUS. 

(From  "The  Masque  of  Pandora.") 

Chorus  of  Oreades. 

/'"^ENTURIES  old  are  the  mountains  ; 
^^     Their  foreheads  wrinkled  and  rifted 
Helios  crowns  by  day, 
Pallid  Selene  by  night  ; 
From  their  bosoms  uptossed 
The  snows  are  driven  and  drifted, 
Like  Tithonus'  beard 
Streaming  dishevelled  and  white. 


MOUNTAIN  CHORUS.  23 

Thunder  and  tempest  of  wind 
Their  trumijcts  blow  in  the  vastncss  ; 
Phantoms  of  mist  and  rain, 
Cloud  and  the  shadow  of  cloud, 
Pass  and  repass  by  the  gates 
Of  their  inaccessible  fastness  ; 
Ever  unmoved  they  stand, 
Solemn,  eternal,  and  proud. 

VoiCF.s  OF  THI-:  Waters. 

Flooded  by  rain  and  snow 
In  their  inexhaustible  sources. 
Swollen  by  affluent  streams 
Hurrying  onward  and  hurled 
Headlong  over  the  crags. 
The  impetuous  water-courses 
Rush,  and  roar,  and  plunge 
Down  to  the  nethermost  world. 

Say,  have  the  solid  rocks 
Into  streams  of  silver  been  melted, 
Flowing  over  the  plains, 
Spreading  to  lakes  in  the  fields  ? 
Or  have  the  mountains,  the  giants. 
The  ice-helmed,  the  forest-belted. 
Scattered  their  arms  abroad  ; 
Flung  in  the  meadow  their  shields  ? 

\'OICES    OF    THE    WlXDS. 

High  on  their  turreted  cliffs 
That  bolts  of  thunder  have  shattered, 
Storm-winds  muster  and  blow 
Trumpets  of  terrible  breath  ; 


24  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Then  from  their  gateways  rush, 
And  before  them  routed  and  scattered 
Sullen  the  cloud-rack  flies, 
Pale  with  the  pallor  of  death. 

Onward  the  hurricane  rides, 
And  flee  for  shelter  the  shepherds  ; 
White  are  the  frightened  leaves, 
Harvests  with  terror  are  white  ; 
Panic  seizes  the  herds, 
And  even  the  lions  and  leopards, 
Prowling  no  longer  for  prey, 
Crouch  in  their  caverns  with  fright. 

Voices  of  the  Forest. 

Guarding  the  mountains  around 
Majestic  the  forests  are  standing, 
Bright  are  their  crested  helms. 
Dark  is  their  armor  of  leaves  ; 
Filled  with  the  breath  of  freedom 
Each  bosom  subsiding,  expanding. 
Now  like  the  ocean  sinks. 
Now  like  the  ocean  upheaves. 

Planted  firm  on  the  rock, 
With  foreheads  stern  and  defiant 
Loud  they  shout  to  the  winds, 
Loud  to  the  tempest  they  call  ; 
Naught  but  Olympian  thunders, 
That  blasted  Titan  and  Giant, 
Them  can  uproot  and  overthrow, 
Shakins:  the  earth  with  their  fall. 


OUR  MOL'XTALV.  25 


Chorus  of  Okeadms, 

These  are  the  \'oice.s  Three 

Of  winds  and  forests  and  fountains  ; 

A'oices  of  earth  and  air, 

Murmur  and  rushing  of  streams, 

Making  together  one  sound, — 

The  mysterious  voice  of  the  mountains  : 

Waking  the  shiggard  that  sleeps, 

Waking  the  dreamer  of  dreams. 

These  are  tlic  Voices  Three 
That  speak  of  endless  endeavor, 
Speak  of  endHrance  and  strength, 
Trium]:)h  and  fulness  of  fame  ; 
Sounding  about  the  world 
An  inspiration  for  ever, 
Stirring  the  hearts  of  men, 
Shaping  their  end  and  their  aim. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


OUR    MOUNTAIN. 

A  LL  hail  to  our  mountain  !  form  well  known, 
■^  ^  His  skirts  of  heath,  and  his  scalp  of  stone 
Guardian  of  streams  in  their  headlong  youth, 
That  rise  in  spate  or  dwindle  in  drouth, — 
Who  sets  o'er  the  clouds  an  Olympian  seat 
Where  thunder  is  roll'd  beneath  our  feet, 
Where  storm  and  lightning 
And  sunshine  I  Tightening 
Solemnly  girdle  our  steep  retreat  ! 


26  THE  MO UiV TAINS. 

A  day  on  the  hills  !  —  true  king  am  I, 
In  my  solitude  public  to  earth  and  sky, 
Fret  inhales  not  this  atmosphere, 
Wing'd  thoughts  only  can  follow  here ; 
Folly  and  falsehood  and  babble  stay 
In  the  ground-smoke  somewhere,  far  away. 

Let  them  greet  and  cheat 

In  the  narrow  street,  — 
Who  cares  what  all  the  newspapers  say ! 

Oh  !  the  tyrant  eagle's  palace  to  share, 

To  possess  the  haunts  of  the  shy  brown  hare, 

And  a  thousand  fields  with  their  lakes  a-shine, 

And  hamlets,  and  towns,  and  the  ocean  line. 

And  beechen  valley,  and  bilberry  dell. 

And  glen  where  the  echoes  and  fairies  dwell; 

With  heaps  and  bosses 

Of  plume-fern  and  mosses, 
Scarlet  rowan  and  slight  blue-bell. 

Plume-ferns  grow  by  the  waterfall, 
Wide  in  the  shimmering  spray  and  tall, 
W^here  the  ash-twigs  tremble,  one  and  all, 
And  cool  air  murmurs,  and  wild  birds  call. 
And  the  glowing  crag  lifts  a  dizzy  wall 
To  the  blue,  through  green  leaves'  coronal. 

And  foam-bells  twinkle 

Where  sunlights  sprinkle 
The  deep  dark  pool  of  the  waterfall. 

I  sit  with  the  Shepherd  Boy  an  hour. 
By  a  gray  cliff's  foot,  on  the  heather-flow'r, 
Simple  of  life  as  his  nibbling  sheep 
Dotted  far  down  on  the  verdant  steep  ; 


OUR  MOUNTAIN.  27 

I  climb  the  path  which  sometimes  fails 
A  peasant  bound  to  more  distant  vales, 

When  nii^ht,  descending, 

The  world  is  blending. 
Or  fog,  or  the  rushing  blast  assails. 

My  feast  on  a  marble  l}lock  is  spread, 
I  dip  my  cup  in  a  cold  well-head  ; 
The  poet's  page  is  strong  and  fine, 
I  read  a  new  volume  in  one  old  line, 
Le.ip  up  for  joy,  and  kiss  the  book  ; 
Then  gaze  far  forth  from  my  lofty  nook, 

With  fresh  surprise, 

And  yearning  eyes 
To  drink  the  whole  beauty  in  one  deep  look. 

From  these  towers  the  first  gray  dawn  is  spied, 
They  watch  the  last  glimmer  of  eventide, 
Wear  shadows  at  noon,  or  vapory  shrouds. 
And  meet  in  council  with  mighty  clouds  : 
And  at  dusk  the  ascending  stars  appear 
On  their  pinnacle  crags,  or  the  chill  moon-sphere 

Whitening  only 

Summits  lonely. 
Circled  with  gulfs  of  blackest  fear. 

When  ripe  and  dry  is  the  heathery  husk, 
Some  eve,  like  a  judgment  flame  through  the  dusk, 
It  burns  the  dim  line  of  a  huger  dome 
Than  is  clad  in  the  paschal  blaze  of  Rome  ; 
And  to  valley,  river,  and  larch-grove  spires, 


28  THE  MOUXTAIXS. 

Signals  with  creeping  scarlet  fires. 

Keen  overpowering 

Embers  cowering 
Low  where  the  western  flush  retires. 

But  the  stern  dark  days  with  mutter  and  moan 
Gather  like  foes  round  a  hated  throne  ; 
Terror  is  peal'd  in  the  trumpet  gale, 
Crashxl  on  the  cymbals  of  the  hail ; 
Vapors  move  in  a  turbulent  host, 
Cave  and  rift  hold  daggers  of  frost. 

And  silently  white 

In  some  morning's  light 
Stands  the  conquer'd  mountain,  a  wintry  ghost. 

Till  pack'd  in  the  hollows  the  round  clouds  lie, 
And  the  wild-geese  flow  charging  down  the  sky 
To  the  salt  sea-fringe  ;  there  milder  rains 
Course  like  young  blood  through  the  wither'd  veins 
That  sweeping  March  left  wasted  and  weak  ; 
And  the  gray  old  Presence,  dim  and  bleak, 

With  sudden  rally 

By  mound  and  valley 
Laughs  with  green  light  to  his  baldest  peak  ! 

Thy  soft  blue  greeting  through  distant  air 
Is  home's  first  smile  to  the  traveller,  — 
Mountain,  from  thee  home's  last  farewell  ! 
In  alien  lands  there  are  tales  to  tell 
Of  thy  haunted  lough,  and  elvish  ring. 
And  cairn  of  the  old  Milesian  king, 

And  the  crumbling  turrets 

Where  miser  spirits 
Batlike  in  vaults  of  treasure  cling. 


COIR-y.i  X-URISKLY.  2  9 

Giant  !  of  mystical,  friendly  brow  ; 
Protector  of  childhood's  landscape,  thou  ; 
Long  golden  seasons  with  thee  abide, 
And  the  joy  of  song,  and  history's  pride. 
Of  all  eiirth's  hills  I  love  thee  best, 
Reckon  from  thee  mine  east  and  west ; 

Fondly  praying, 

Wherever  straying, 
To  leave  in  thy  shadow  my  bones  at  rest. 

William  Allingham. 


COIR-NAN-URISKIN. 

(From  the  "  Lady  of  the  Lake.") 

BY  many  a  bard  in  Celtic  tongue 
Has  Coir-nan-Uriskin  been  sung  ; 
A  softer  name  the  Saxons  gave, 
And  called  the  grot  the  Goblin  Cave. 

It  was  a  wild  and  strange  retreat 
As  e'er  was  trod  by  outlaw's  feet. 
The  dell,  upon  the  mountain's  crest, 
Yawned  like  a  gash  on  warrior's  breast ; 
Its  trench  had  stayed  full  many  a  rock 
Hurled  by  primeval  earthquake  shock 
From  Benvenue's  gray  summit  wild, 
And  here,  in  random  ruin  piled. 
They  frowned  incumbent  o'er  the  spot, 
And  formed  the  rugged  sylvan  grot. 
The  oak  and  birch,  with  mingled  shade, 
At  noontide  there  a  twilight  made. 


30  THE   MOUXTATXS. 

Unless  when  short  and  sudden  shone 
Some  stragghng  beam  on  diff  or  stone, 
With  such  a  ghmpse  as  prophet's  eye 
Gains  on  thy  depth.  Futurity. 
No  murmur  waked  the  solemn  still, 
Save  tinkling  of  a  fountain  rill  ; 
But  when  the  wind  chafed  with  the  lake, 
A  sullen  sound  would  upward  break 
With  dashing  hollow  voice,  that  spoke 
The  incessant  war  of  wave  and  rock. 
Suspended  cliffs,  with  hideous  sway, 
Seemed  nodding  o'er  the  cavern  gray. 

From  such  a  den  the  wolf  had  sprung. 
In  such  the  wild-cat  leaves  her  young; 
Yet  Douglas  and  his  daughter  fair 
Sought  for  a  space  their  safety  there. 
Gray  Superstition's  whisper  dread 
Debarred  the  spot  to  vulgar  tread  ; 
For  there,  she  said,  did  fays  resort. 
And  satyrs  hold  their  sylvan  court, 
By  moonhght  tread  their  mystic  maze, 
And  blast  the  rash  beholder's  gaze. 


Sir  W.  Scott. 


LINES  WRITTEN    IN   A   HIGHLAND    GLEN. 

'T^O  whom  belongs  this  valley  fair, 
•*■       That  sleeps  beneath  the  filmy  air, 

Even  like  a  living  thing  ? 
Silent  as  infant  at  the  breast, 
Save  a  still  sound  that  speaks  of  rest, 

That  streamlet's  murmurins: ! 


IN  A   HIGIILAiXD   GLEN.  31 

The  heavens  appear  to  love  this  vale  ; 
Here  clouds  with  scarce-seen  motion  sail, 

Or  mid  the  silence  lie  ! 
By  the  blue  arch,  this  beauteous  earth, 
'Mid  evening's  hour  of  dewy  mirth, 

Seems  bound  unto  the  sky. 

Oh  that  this  lovely  vale  were  mine  ! 
Then,  from  glad  youth  to  calm  decline. 

My  years  would  gently  gHde  ; 
Hope  would  rejoice  in  endless  dreams. 
And  memory's  oft-returning  gleams 

By  peace  be  sanctified. 

There  would  unto  my  soul  be  given, 
From  presence  of  that  gracious  heaven, 

A  piety  sublime  ! 
And  thoughts  would  come  of  mystic  mood. 
To  make  in  this  deep  solitude 

Eternity  of  Time  ! 

And  did  I  ask  to  whom  belong'd 
This  vale  .-^     I  feel  that  I  have  wrong'd 

Nature's  most  gracious  soul ! 
She  spreads  her  glories  o'er  the  earth. 
And  all  her  children,  from  their  birth. 

Are  joint  heirs  of  the  whole  ! 

Yea,  long  as  Nature's  humblest  child 

Has  kept  her  temple  undefiled 

By  sinful  sacrifice. 

Earth's  fairest  scenes  are  all  his  own ; 

He  is  a  monarch,  and  his  throne 

Is  built  amid  the  skies  ! 

John  Wilson. 


32  THE  MOUNTAINS. 


A   MORNING    IN    OREGON. 

A    MORN  in  Oregon  !  the  kindled  camp 
^^^     Upon  the  mountain  brow,  that  broke  beloAV 
In  steep  and  grassy  stairway  to  the  damp 
And  dewy  valley,  snapp'd  and  flamed  aglow 
With  knots  of  pine.     Above,  the  peaks  of  snow, 
With  under-belts  of  sable  forests,  rose 
And  flash'd  in  sudden  sunhght.     To  and  fro 
And  far  below,  in  lines  and  winding  rows. 
The  herders  drove  their  bands,  and  broke  the  deep 
repose. 

I  heard  their  shouts  like  sounding  hunter  s  horn, 
The  lowing  herds  made  echoes  far  away : 
When  lo  !  the  clouds  came  driving  in  with  morn 
Toward  the  sea,  as  fleeing  from  the  day. 
The  valleys  fill'd  with  curly  clouds.     They  lay 
Below,  a  levelFd  sea  that  reached  and  roll'd 
And  broke  like  breakers  of  a  stormy  bay 
Against  the  grassy  shingle,  fold  on  fold, 
So  Hke  a  splendid  ocean,  snowy  white  and  cold. 

The  peopled  valley  lay  a  hidden  world, 
The  shouts  were  shouts  of  drowning  men  that  died, 
The  broken  clouds  along  the  border  curl'd. 
And  bent  the  grass  with  weighty  freight  of  tide. 
A  savage  stood  in  silence  at  my  side. 
Then  sudden  threw  aback  his  beaded  strouds 
And  stretched  his  hand  above  the  scene,  and  cried. 
As  all  the  land  lay  dead  in  snowy  shrouds  : 
"  Behold  !  the  sun  upon  a  silver  sea  of  clouds." 


BUGLE  SONG.  ZZ 

Here  lifts  the  land  of  clouds  !     The  imntled  forms, 
Made  white  with  everlasting  snow,  look  down 
Through  mists  of  many  canons,  and  the  storms 
That  stretch  from  Autumn  time  until  they  drown 
The  yellow  hem  of  Spring.     The  cedars  frown, 
Dark-brow'd,  through  banner'd  clouds  that  stretch 

and  stream 
Above  the  sea  from  snowy  mountain  crown. 
The  heavens  roll,  and  all  things  drift,  or  seem 
To  drift,  about  and  drive  like  some  majestic  dream. 

JoAcjuiN  Miller. 


T' 


BUGLE  SONG. 

'HE  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow  !  set  the  wild  echoes  flying ; 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes  —  dying,  dying,  dying  ! 

Oh  hark,  oh  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  further  going! 
Oh  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar, 
The  horns  of  elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 
Blow  !  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying  ; 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes  —  dying,  dying,  dying  ! 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky ; 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river  ; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul. 
And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever  ! 
Blow,  bugle,  blow  !  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer  —  dying,  dying,  dying! 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


34  THE   MOUXTAIXS. 


ON    THE    HEIGHTS. 

TTIGHER  !  yet  higher!     Tho'  the  path  is  steep, 
-■-  -*■     And  all  around  the  withering  bracken  rusts. 
Up  yonder  on  the  crag  a  mossy  spring, 
Frosted  with  silver,  glistens,  and  around 
Grasses  as  green  as  hedgerows  in  the  May 
Cushion  the  lichen  d  stones. 

Here  let  us  pause  : 
Here,  where  the  grass  gleams  emerald,  and  the  spring 
Up  bubbling  faintly  seemeth  as  a  sound, 
A  drowsy  hum,  heard  in  the  mind  itself  : 
Here,  in  this  stillness,  let  us  pause  and  mark 
The  many-color'd  picture.     Far  beneath 
Sleepeth  the  glassy  Ocean  like  a  sheet 
Of  liquid  mother-o'-pearl,  and  on  its  rim 
A  ship  sleeps,  and  the  shadow  of  the  ship  ; 
Astern  the  reef  juts  darkly,  edged  with  foam, 
Thro'  the  smooth  brine  :  oh,  hark  !  how  loudly  sings 
A  wild,  weird  ditty  to  a  watery  tune. 
The  fisher  among  his  nets  upon  the  shore ; 
And  yonder,  far  away,  his  shouting  bairns 
Are  running,  dwarf'd  by  distance  small  as  mice. 
Along  the  yellow  sands.     Behind  us,  see 
The  immeasurable  mountains  rising  silent 
Against  the  fields  of  dreamy  blue,  wherein 
The  rayless  crescent  of  the  mid-day  moon 
Lies  like  a  reaper's  sickle  ;  and  before  us 
The  immeasurable  mountains,  rising  silent 


NEARIXG    THE  S.VOIV-L/XE.  35 

From    bourne  to  bourne,  from  knolls  of   thyme  and 

heather, 
To  leafless  slopes  of  granite,  from  the  slopes 
Of  granite  to  the  dim  and  ashen  heights 
Where,  with  a  silver  glimmer,  silently 
I'ausing,  the  white  cloud  sheds  miraculous  snow 
On  the  heights  untravell'd  —  whither  we  are  bound. 

RuuEKT  Buchanan. 


NEARING    THE    SNOW-LINE. 

O  LOW  toiling  upward  from  the  misty  vale, 
*^     I  leave  the  bright  enamelled  zones  below  ; 

No  more  for  me  their  beauteous  bloom  shall  glow, 
Their  lingering  sweetness  load  the  morning  gale; 
Few  are  the  slender  flowerets,  scentless,  pale, 

That  on  their  ice-clad  stems  all  trembling  blow 

Along  the  margin  of  unmelting  snow. 
Yet  with  unsaddened  voice  thy  verge  I  hail. 

White  realm  of  peace  above  the  flowering  line  ; 
Welcome  thy  frozen  domes,  thy  rocky  spires  ! 

O'er  thee  undimmed  the  moon-girt  planets  shine, 
On  thy  majestic  altars  fade  the  fires 
That  filled  the  air  with  smoke  of  vain  desires, 

And  all  the  unclouded  blue  of  heaven  is  thine  ! 

O.    W.    HOLMP.S. 


36  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

HYMN, 
Before  Sunrise,  in  the  Vale  of  Chamounix. 

TTAST  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 

■*■  -^     In  his   steep  course  ?     So  long  he  seems   to 

pause 
On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  O  sovereign  Blanc  ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly;  but  thou  most  awful  form 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines. 
How  silently  !     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black,  — 
An  ebon  mass.     Methinks  thou  piercest  it 
As  with  a  wedge  !     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity  ! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount  !     I  gazed  upon  thee. 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense. 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought.     Entranced  in  prayer 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody. 
So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thought  — 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy  — 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enwrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing,  — there. 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  Heaven  ! 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 


7/y.v.v.  37 

Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy  !     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song!  Awake,  my  heart,  awake  ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn  ! 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovereign  of  the  vale  ! 
Oh,  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink  — 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn 
Co-herald  —  wake,  oh  wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercelv  glad  ! 
Wlio  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  these  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 
For  ever  shattered  and  the  same  for  ever  ? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life. 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  3'our  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came) : 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest  ? 

Ye  ice-falls  !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain, — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice. 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge  ! 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?  who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  \\\\\\  rainbows  ?  who,  with  living  flowers 


38  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  2 
God  !  — let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer!  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God! 
God  !  sing  ye  meadow-streams  with  gladsome  voice  ! 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds  ! 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  I 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost  I 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm  I 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds  ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements  !  -^ 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise  I 

Thou  too,  hoar  Mount !  with  thy  sky-pointing  peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene, 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast,  — 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain  !  thou 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me  :   Rise,  oh  ever  rise  ! 
Rise,  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth  ! 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills. 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  Heaven, 
Great  Hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky. 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


NIGHT  IN  THE  ALPS.  39 

NIGHT    IN    THE   ALPS. 

(From  "  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage.") 

/''^LEAR,  placid  Leman  !  thy  contrasted  lake, 
^-^     With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction  ;  once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved, 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so 
moved. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen, 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capp'd  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep;  and,  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood  :  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar. 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more. 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  w^ho  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill  ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill. 


40  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

Ye  stars  !  which  are  the  poetry  of  Heaven  ! 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires,  — 'tis  to  be  forgiven, 
That,  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you ;  for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 
That  fortune,  fame,   power,  life,   have  named  them- 
selves a  star. 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still  —  though  not  in  sleep. 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most  ; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too  deep  :  — 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still  :  from  the  high  host 
Of  stars  to  the  lull'd  lake  and  mountain  coast 
All  is  concentred  in  a  life  intense. 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense, 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  Defence. 

Then  stirs  the  feehng  infinite,  so  felt 

In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone  ; 

A  truth,  which  through  our  being  then  doth  melt, 

And  purifies  from  self  :   it  is  a  tone, 

The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  known 


NIGHT  IN   THE  ALPS.  ^l 

Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm, 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone, 
Binding;  all  things  with  beauty  ;  —  'twould  disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to  harm. 

Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
Of  earth-o'ergazing  mountains,  and  thus  take 
A  fit  and  unwalled  temple,  there  to  seek 
The  Spirit,  in  whose  honor  shrines  are  weak, 
Upreared  of  human  hands.     Come,  and  compare 
Columns  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth  or  Greek, 
With  Nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth  and  air, 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy  pray'r  ! 

The  sky  is  changed  !  — and  such  a  change  !  oh  night, 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong. 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman  !     Far  along. 
From  peak  to  peak  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder  !     Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue. 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud. 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud  ! 

And  this  is  in  the  night :  —  Most  glorious  night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber  !  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight,  — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  ! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea. 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth  ! 
And  now  again  'tis  black,  —  and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth. 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 


42  THE   MOUXTAINS. 

Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  clears  his  way  between 
Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene, 
That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted  : 
Though    in    their    souls,    which    thus    each    other 

thwarted. 
Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage 
Which    blighted   their   life's    bloom,   and   then  de- 
parted :  — 
Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 
Of  years  all  winters,  —  war  within  themselves  to  wage. 

Now  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft  his  way, 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en  his  stand  ; 
For  here,  not  one  but  many  make  their  play, 
And  fling  their  thunderbolts  from  hand  to  hand. 
Flashing  and  cast  around  :  of  all  the  band. 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  fork'd 
His  lightnings,  —  as  if  he  did  understand, 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  work'd. 
There   the    hot   shaft   should   blast  whatever  therein 
lurk'd. 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings  !    ye 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful ;  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless,  — if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  O  tempests  !  is  the  goal  ? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast  ? 
Or  do  ve  find  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest  ? 


SUNRISE.  43 

Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 
That  which  is  most  within  me,  —  could  I  wreak 
My  thoufjhts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions  feelings,  strong  or  weak, 
All  that  1  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek, 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe,  —  into  one  word. 
And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would  speak  ; 
But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard. 
With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword. 

The  morn  is  up  again,  the  dewy  morn. 
With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom, 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scorn, 
And  living  as  if  earth  contained  no  tomb,  — 
And  glowing  into  day  ;  we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence  :  and  thus  I, 
Still  on  thy  shores,  fair  Leman  !  may  find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  pondered  fittingly. 

Lord  Byron. 


SUNRISE. 

T    O  !  liere  the  gentle  lark,  weary  of  rest, 
■*-^     From  his  moist  cabinet  mounts  up  on  high. 
And  wakes  the  morning,  from  whose  silver  breast 
The  sun  ariseth  in  his  majesty  ; 

Who  doth  the  world  so  gloriously  behold, 
The  cedar-tops  and  hills  seem  burnished  gold. 

W.  Shakspeake. 


44  THE   MOUNTAINS. 


SUNRISE  ON    THE    HILLS. 

T  STOOD  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven's  wide  arch 

-'-     Was  glorious  with  the  sun's  returning  march, 

And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft  gales 

Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 

The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me  ;  —  bathed  in  light, 

They  gathered  mid-way  round  the  wooded  height, 

And,  in  their  fading-glory,  shone 

Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown, 

As  many  a  pinnacle,  with  shifting  glance, 

Through  the  gray  mist  thrust  up  its  shattered  lance, 

And  rocking  on  the  cliff  was  left 

The  dark  pine  blasted,  bare,  and  cleft. 

The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted,  and  below 

Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  rivers  flow 

Was  darkened  by  the  forest's  shade, 

Or  glistened  in  the  white  cascade  ; 

Where  upward,  in  the  mellow  blush  of  day, 

The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 

I  heard  the  distant  waters  dash, 
I  saw  the  current  whirl  and  flash,  — 
And  richly,  by  the  blue  lake's  silver  beach, 
The  woods  were  bending  with  a  silent  reach. 
Then  o'er  the  vale,  with  gentle  swell, 
The  music  of  the  village  bell 
Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills  ; 
And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  woodland  fills, 


TIIR  PASSIXG   OF   THE   IV/XD.  45 

Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout 

That  faint  and  far  the  glen  sent  out, 

Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot,  thin  smoke, 

Through  thick-leaved  branches,  from  the  dingle  broke. 

If  tliou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows  that  thou  would'st  forget. 
If  thou  would'st  read  a  lesson  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from  sleep, 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills  !  —  No  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears. 

H.  \V.  Longfellow. 


THE    PASSING   OF   THE    WIND. 

TTAST  thou  ever  sat  on  a  mountain-brow 

-*-  -*•     When  the  sun  was  bright  and  the  wind  was  low, 

And  gazed  on  the  groups  of  silent  wood 

That  hung  by  the  brink  of  a  crystal  flood, 

When  the  wind  starts  up  from  his  hidden  lair, 

Like  a  thing  refreshed  by  sleep. 
On  the  scene  so  summer-like  and  fair 

And  the  quietness  so  deep  ? 
The  far-off  pass  and  the  broken  fell 
With  a  hoarse  and  hollow  murmur  swell 

As  the  giant  rides  along  : 
He  comes  with  sceptre  bare  to  break 
The  pageant  mirrored  in  the  lake  ; 
And  the  whole  forest  depths  to  shake 

With  fury  loud  and  strong. 
He  hath  bent  the  poplar  as  he  passed, 
As  the  tempest  bends  the  tall  ship-mast ; 


46  THE   MOUXTAIXS. 

He  hath  twisted  the  boughs  of  the  lofty  ash, 
And  the  old  oak  moaned  beneath  his  lash. 
And  yet  to  thee  like  some  strange  dream 
The  wild  wind's  savage  sport  doth  seem, 
For  thou  art  still  on  thy  mountain  brow, 
With  the  sun  all  bright  and  the  wind  all  low  ! 

F.  W.  Faber. 


A  SU.ALMER   STORM    IN    THE   MOUNTAINS. 

(From  "The  Seasons.") 

BEHOLD,  slow-settling  o'er  the  lurid  grove 
Unusual  darkness  broods,  and  growing  gains 
The  full  possession  of  the  sky,  surcharged 
With  wrathful  vapor,  from  the  secret  beds 
Where  sleep  the  mineral  generations,  drawn. 
Thence  nitre,  sulphur,  and  the  fiery  spume 
Of  fat  bitumen,  steaming  on  the  day. 
With  various  tinctured  trains  of  latent  flame. 
Pollute  the  sky,  and  in  yon  baleful  cloud, 
A  reddening  gloom,  a  magazine  of  fate. 
Ferment ;  till,  by  the  touch  ethereal  roused, 
The  dash  of  clouds,  or  irritating  war 
Of  fighting  winds,  while  all  is  calm  below, 
They  furious  spring,     A  boding  silence  reigns, 
Dread  through  the  dun  expanse  ;  save  the  dull  sound 
That  from  the  mountain,  previous  to  the  "storm, 
Rolls  o'er  the  muttering  earth,  disturbs  the  flood. 
And  shakes  the  forest-leaf  without  a  breath. 
Prone,  to  the  lowest  vale,  the   aerial  tribes 


MOUNTAIN  SUMMER  STORM.  47 

Descend  ;  the  tempest-loving  raven  scarce 
Dares  wing  the  dubious  dusk.     In  rueful  ^-xlq. 
The  cattle  stand,  and  on  the  scowlini^  heavens 
Cast  a  deploring  eye,  by  man  forsook, 
Who  to  the  crowded  cottage  hies  him  fast, 
Or  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  downward  cave. 
'Tis  listening  fear,  and  dumb  am  izement  all : 
When  to  the  startled  eye  the  sudden  glance 
Appears  far  south,  eruptive  through  the  cloud  ; 
And  following  slower,  in  explosion  vast. 
The  thunder  raises  his  tremendous  voice. 
At  first,  heard  solemn  o'er  the  verge  of  heaven, 
The  tempest  growls  ;  but  as  it  nearer  comes. 
And  rolls  its  awful  burden  on  the  wind, 
The  lightnings  flash  a  larger  curve,  and  more 
The  noise  astounds  :   till  overhead  a  sheet 
Of  livid  flame  discloses  wide  ;  then  shuts, 
And  opens  wider  ;  shuts  and  opens  still 
Expansive,  wrapping  ether  in  a  blaze. 
Follows  the  loosened  aggravated  roar, 
Enlarging,  deepening,  mingling  ;  peal  on  peal 
Crash'd  horrible,  convulsing  heaven  and  earth. 

Down  comes  a  deluge  of  sonorous  hail. 
Or  prone-descending  rain.     Wide-rent,  the  clouds 
Pour  a  whole  flood ;  and  yet,  its  flame  unquench'd, 
The  unconquerable  lightning  struggles  through, 
Ragged  and  fierce,  or  in  red  whirling  balls. 
And  fires  the  mountain  with  redoubled  rage- 
Black  from  the  stroke,  above,  the  smouldering  pine 
Stands  a  sad  shatter'd  trunk  ;  and,  stretch'd  below, 
A  lifeless  group  the  blasted  cattle  lie  : 
Here  the  soft  flocks,  with  that  same  harmless  look 


43  THE   MOUX TAINS. 

They  wore  alive,  and  ruminating  still 
In  fancy's  eye  ;  and  there  the  frowning  bull, 
And  ox  half-raised.     Struck  on  the  castled  cliff, 
The  venerable  tower  and  spiry  fane 
Resign  their  aged  pride.     The  gloomy  woods 
Start  at  the  flash,  and  from  their  deep  recess. 
Wide-flaming  out,  their  trembling  inmates  shake. 
Amid  Carnarvon's  mountains  rages  loud 
The  repercussive  roar  :  with  mighty  crush, 
Into  the  flashing  deep,  from  the  rude  rocks 
Of  Penmanmaur  heap'd  hideous  to  the  sky, 
Tumble  the  smitten  cliffs  ;  and  Snowdon's  peak, 
Dissolving,  instant  yields  his  wintry  load. 
P^ar  seen,  the  heights  of  heathy  Cheviot  blaze, 
The  Thule  bellows  through  her  utmost  isles. 

J.  Thomson. 

TPIE   TROSACHS. 

nr^HERE'S  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass, 

-*-     But  were  an  apt  confessional  for  one 
Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn  gone, 
That  Life  is  but  a  tale  of  morning  grass 
Withered  at  eve.     From  scenes  of  art  that  chase 
That  thought  away,  turn,  and  with  watchful  eyes 
Feed  it  'mid  Nature's  old  felicities,  — 
Rocks,  rivers,  and  smooth  lakes  more  clear  than  glass 
Untouched,  unbreathed  upon.     Thrice  happy  guest. 
If  from  a  golden  perch  of  aspen  spray 
(October's  workmanship  to  rival  May) 
The  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy  breast 
This  moral  sweeten  by  a  Heaven-taught  lay, 
Lulling  the  year,  with  all  its  cares,  to  rest. 

\V.  Wordsworth. 


AFTER-STORM  MOUNTAIN  SUNSET.        49 


SUNSET    IN    THE    MOUNTAINS   AFTER 
A    STORM. 

(From  the  "Excursion.") 

A     STEP, 
"^  ^  A  single  step,  that  freed  me  from  the  skirts 
Of  the  bhnd  vapor,  opened  to  my  view 
Glory  beyond  all  glory  ever  seen 
By  waking  sense  or  by  the  dreaming  soul  ! 
The  appearance,  instantaneously  disclosed, 
Was  of  a  mighty  city  —  boldly  say 
A  wilderness  of  building,  sinking  far 
And  self-withdrawn  into  a  wondrous  depth, 
P'ar  sinking  into  splendor  —  without  end  ! 
Faloric  it  seemed  of  diamond  or  of  gold, 
With  alabaster  domes,  and  silver  spires. 
And  blazing  terrace  upon  terrace,  high 
Uplifted  ;  here,  serene  pavilions  bright. 
In  avenues  disposed  ;  there  towers  begirt 
With  battlements  that  on  their  resdess  fronts 
liore  stars  —  illumination  of  all  gems  ! 
By  earthly  nature  had  the  effect  been  wrought 
Upon  the  dark  materials  of  the  storm 
Now  pacified  ;  on  them,  and  'on  the  coves 
And  mountain-steeps  and  summits,  whereunto 
The  vapors  had  receded,  taking  there 
Their  station  under  a  cerulean  sky. 
Oh,  'twas  an  unimaginable  sight ! 

Clouds,  mists,  streams,  watery  rocks  and  emerald  turf. 
Clouds  of  all  tincture,  rocks  and  sapphire  sky, 
4 


so  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

Confused,  commingled,  mutually  inflamed, 

Molten  together,  and  composing  thus, 

Each  lost  in  each,  that  marvellous  array 

Of  temple,  palace,  citadel,  and  huge 

Fantastic  pomp  of  structure  without  name, 

In  fleecy  folds  voluminous,  enwrapped. 

Right  in  the  midst  where  interspace  appeared 

Qf  open  court,  an  object  like  a  throne 

Beneath  a  shining  canopy  of  state 

Stood  fixed  :  and  fixed  resemblances  were  seen 

To  implements  of  ordinary  use, 

But  vast  in  size,  in  substance  glorified  ; 

Such  as  by  Hebrew  Prophets  were  beheld 

In  vision  —  forms  uncouth  of  mightiest  power 

For  admiration  and  mysterious  awe. 

Below  me  was  the  earth  ;  this  little  vale 

Lay  low  beneath  my  feet ;  'twas  visible  — • 

I  saw  not,  but  I  felt  that  it  was  there. 

That  which  I  saw  was  the  revealed  abode 

Of  spirits  in  beatitude  :  my  heart 

Swelled  in  my  breast.  —  "  I  have  been  dead,"  I  cried, 

"  And  now  I  live  !     Oh  !  wherefore  do  I  live  ? " 

And  with  that  pang  I  prayed  to  be  no  more ! 

W.  Wordsworth. 


TIRED.  51 


TIRED. 

OH  for  win2:s,  that  I  might  soar 
A  little  way  above  the  floor  — 
A  little  way  beyond  the  roar  — 

A  little  nearer  to  the  sky  ! 
To  the  blue  hills,  lifted  high, 
Out  of  all  our  misery. 

Where  alone  is  heard  the  lark 
Warbling  in  the  infinite  arc, 
From  the  dawning  to  the  dark. 

Where  the  callow  eaglets  wink 
On  the  bare  and  breezy  brink, 
And  slow  pinions  rise  and  sink. 

Where  the  dim  white  breakers  beat 
Under  cloud-drifts  at  our  feet. 
Singing,  singing,  low  and  sweet. 

Where  we  see  the  glimmering  bay 
Grayly  melting  far  away, 
On  the  confines  of  the  day. 

Where  the  green  larch-fringes  sweep 
Rocky  defiles,  still  and  steep, 
Where  the  tender  lichens  creep. 

Where  the  gentian  blossoms  blow, 
Set  in  crystal  stars  of  snow  ; 
Where  the  downward  torrents  flow 


52  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

To  the  plains  and  yellow  leas, 
Glancing,  twinkling,  through  the  trees, 
Pure  as  from  celestial  seas. 

Where  the  face  of  Heaven  has  smiled, 
Aye  on  freedom,  sweet  and  wild. 
Aye  on  beauty,  undefiled. 

Where  no  sound  of  human  speech 
And  no  human  passions  reach  ; 
Where  the  angels  sit  and  teach. 

Where  no  troublous  foot  has  trod ; 
Where  is  impressed  on  the  sod 
Only  Hand  and  Heart  of  God  ! 

Alice  Campbell. 

GOD    IS    BEAUTIFUL. 

/^H,  Thou  art  beautiful !  and  Thou  dost  bestow 
^-^     Thy  beauty  on  this  stillness  :  still  as  sheep 

The  hills  he  under  Thee ;  the  waters  deep 
Murmur  for  joy  of  Thee  ;  the  voids  below 
Mirror  Thy  strange  fair  vapors  as  they  flow  ; 

And  now,  afar  upon  the  ashen  height. 

Thou  sendest  down  a  radiant  look  of  light, 
So  that  the  still  peaks  glisten,  and  a  glow 
Rose-color'd  tints  the  little  snowy  cloud 

That  poises  on  the  highest  peak  of  all. 
Oh,  Thou  art  beautiful !  —  the  hills  are  bowed 

Beneath  Thee ;  on  Thy  name  the  soft  winds  call,  — 
The  monstrous  ocean  trumpets  it  aloud. 

The  rains  and  -snows  intone  it  as  they  fall. 

Robert  Buchanan. 


SUMMER  BY   THE  LAKESIDE.  53 

SUMMER    BY    THE    LAKESIDE. 

I.     Noox. 

\X7HITE  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt  the  deep, 

Light  mists,  whose  soft  embraces  keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep  ! 

O  isles  of  calm  I  —  O  dark,  still  wood  ! 
And  stiller  skies  that  overbrood 
Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude  ! 

0  shapes  and  hues  !  dim  beckoning  through 
Yon  mountain  gaps  my  longing  view 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue, 

To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land. 

And  softer  lights  and  airs  more  bland. 

And  skies,  — the  hollow  of  God's  hand  ! 

Transfused  through  you,  O  mountain  friends  ! 
With  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends. 
And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends. 

1  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 

I  know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine. 
And  I  am  yours,  and  ye  are  mine. 

Life's  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease, 

I  lapse  into  the  glad  release 

Of  Nature's  own  exceeding  peace. 

Oh,  welcome  calm  of  heart  and  mind ! 
As  falls  yon  fir-tree's  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a  tenderer  grrowth  behind, 


54  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

So  fall  the  wear)'  years  away  ; 
A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day. 

This  western  wind  hath  Lethean  powers, 
Yon  noonday  cloud  nepenthe  showers, 
The  lake  is  white  with  lotus  flowers  ! 

Even  Duty's  voice  is  faint  and  low, 

And  slumberous  Conscience,  waking  slow, 

Forgets  her  blotted  scroll  to  show. 

The  shadow  which  pursues  us  all, 
Whose  ever-nearing  steps  appall. 
Whose  voice  we  hear  behind  us  call,  ^— 

That  shadow  blends  with  mountain  gray, 
It  speaks  but  what  the  light  waves  say,  — 
Death  walks  apart  from  fear  to-day  ! 

Rocked  on  her  breast,  these  pines  and  I 
Alike  on  Nature's  love  rely ; 
And  equal  seems  to  live  or  die. 

Assured  that  He  whose  presence  fills 
With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills 
No  evil  to  his  creatures  wills. 

The  simple  faith  remains,  that  He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be. 
The  best  alike  for  man  and  tree. 

What  mosses  over  one  shall  grow. 
What  light  and  life  the  other  know, 
Unanxious,  leavins:  Him  to  show. 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE.  55 


II.     Evening. 

Yon  mountain's  side  is  black  with  night, 

While,  broad-orbed,  o'er  its  gleaming  crown 

The  moon,  slow-rounding  into  sight, 
On  the  hushed  inland  sea  looks  down. 

How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles. 

Each  silver-hemmed  !     How  sharply  show 

The  shadows  of  their  rocky  piles, 
And  tree-tops  in  the  wave  below  ! 

How  far  and  strange  the  mountains  seem, 
Dim-looming  through  the  pale,  still  light  ! 

The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a  dream, 
They  stretch  into  the  solemn  night. 

Beneath,  lake,  wood,  and  peopled  vale, 
Hushed  by  that  presence  grand  and  grave, 

Are  silent,  save  the  cricket's  wail. 
And  low  response  of  leaf  and  wave. 

Fair  scenes  !  whereto  the  day  and  night 
Make  rival  love,  I  leave  ye  soon, 

"What  time  before  the  eastern  light 
The  pale  ghost  of  the  setting  moon 

Shall  hide  behind  yon  rocky  spines. 

And  the  young  archer,  morn,  shall  break 

His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines, 
And,  golden-sandalled,  walk  the  lake  ! 

Farewell !  around  this  smiling  bay 
Gay-hearted  health  and  life  in  bloom, 

"With  lighter  steps  than  mine,  may  stray 
In  radiant  summers  yet  to  come. 


56  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

But  none  shall  more  regretful  leave 
These  waters  and  these  hills  than  I  : 

Or,  distant,  fonder  dream  how  eve 
Or  dawn  is  painting  wave  and  sky ; 

How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 
On  wooded  isle  and  silvering  bay ; 

Or  setting  suns  beyond  the  piled 

And  purple  mountains  lead  the  day  ; 

Nor  laughing  girl,  nor  bearding  boy, 

Nor  full-pulsed  manhood,  lingering  here, 
.     Shall  add,  to  Hfe's  abounding  joy, 

The  charmed  repose  to  suffering  dear. 

Still  waits  kind  Nature  to  impart 
Her  choicest  gifts  to  such  as  gain 

An  entrance  to  her  loving  heart 

Through  the  sharp  discipline  of  pain. 

For  ever  from  the  hand  that  takes 
One  blessing  from  us  others  fall : 

And,  soon  or  late,  our  Father  makes 
His  perfect  recompense  to  all  ! 

O,  watched  by  silence  and  the  night, 
And  folded- in  the  strong  embrace 

Of  the  great  mountains,  with  the  light 
Of  the  sweet  heavens  upon  thy  face, 

Lake  of  the  Northland  !  keep  thy  dower 
Of  beauty  still,  and  while  above 

Thy  solemn  mountains  speak  of  power, 
Be  thou  the  mirror  of  God's  love. 

J.  G.   Whittier. 


AT  WINNIPESAUKEE.  57 

SNOWDON, 

In  tiik  Pass  of  Llaxberis. 

TTOLDING  by  this  rude  crag  I  stay  to  listen, 

-'-  -*-     Where  the  white  noonday  moon  looks  o'er  the 

steep, 
And  sheets  of  mountain-water  hang  and  glisten, 
Catching  the  sun  far  up  in  their  long  leap. 
Snowdon's  whole  range  is  rocking  in  the  wind, 
Ridges  and  splintered  caves  and  lifeless  vales, 
Calling  forth  mighty  sounds,  while  they  unbind 
The  echoing  chords  of  this  vast  harp  of  Wales, 
Forget  not  whom  the  winds  forth-shadow  !     Hark, 
How  the  huge  hills  take  up  in  hollows  dark 
The  clang  from  these  distracted  caverns  tossed. 
Till  the  brave  eagles  in  their  holds  have  trembled. 
Crouching  and  screaming  to  the  choir  assembled, 
I^ound  this  dread  Altar  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

F.  W.    Faber. 

AT    WIxNNIPESAUKEE. 

r\  SILENT  hills  across  the  lake, 

^^     Asleep  in  moonlight,  or  awake 

To  catch  the  color  of  the  sky. 

That  sifts  through  every  cloud  swept  by,  —  ' 

How  beautiful  ye  are,  in  change 

Of  sultry  haze  and  storm-light  strange  ! 

How  dream-like  rest  ye  on  the  bar 

That  parts  the  billows  from  the  star  ! 

How  blend  your  mists  with  waters  clear, 

Till  earth  floats  off,  and  heaven  seems  near  ! 


58  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

Ye  faint  and  fade,  a  pearly  zone, 
The  coast-line  of  a  land  unknown. 
Yet  that  is  sun-burnt  Ossipee, 
Plunged  knee-deep  in  the  limpid  sea  : 
Somewhere  among  these  grouping  isles 
Old  White-Face  from  his  cloud-cap  smiles, 
And  gray  Chocorua  bends  his  crown, 
To  look  on  happy  hamlets  down  ; 
And  every  pass  and  mountain  slope 
Leads  out  and  on  some  human  hope. 

Here,  the  great  hollows  of  the  hills 
The  glamour  of  the  June  day  fills. 
Along  the  climbing  path,  the  brier, 
In  rose-bloom  beauty  beckoning  higher, 
Breathes  sweetly  the  warm  uplands  over ; 
And,  gay  with  buttercups  and  clever, 
The  slopes  of  meadowy  freshness  make 
A  green  foil  to  the  sparkling  lake. 

So  is  it  with  yon  hills  that  swim 
Upon  the  horizon,  blue  and  dim : 
For  all  the  summer  is  not  ours  ; 
On  other  shores  familiar  flowers 
Find  blossoming  as  fresh  as  these, 
In  shade  and  shine  and  eddying  breeze  ; 
And  scented  slopes  as  cool  and  green 
To  kiss  of  lisping  ripples  lean. 

So  is  it  with  the  land  beyond 
This  earth  we  press  with  steps  so  fond. 
Upon  those  faintly-outlined  hills 
God's  sunshine  sleeps,  his  dew  distils  : 


AT  IVINNIPESAUKEE.  59 

The  clear  beatitudes  of  home 
Within  the  heavenly  boundaries  come : 
The  hearts  that  made  life's  fraj^rance  here 
To  Eden  haunts  brinfj  added  cheer  ; 
And  all  the  beauty,  all  the  good, 
Lost  to  our  lower  altitude, 
Transfigured,  yet  the  same,  are  given 
Upon  the  mountain-heights  of  heaven. 

O  cloud-swathed  hills  the  flood  across, 
Ye  hide  the  mystery  of  our  loss, 
Yet  hide  it  but  a  little  while : 
Past  sunlit  shore  and  shadowy  isle, 
Out  to  the  still  lake's  farther  brim. 
Ere  long  our  bark  the  wave  shall  skim. 
And  what  the  vigor  and  the  glow 
Our  earthly-torpid  souls  shall  know, 
When,  grounding  on  the  silver  sands, 
We  feel  the  clasp  of  loving  hands, 
And  see  the  walls  of  sapphire  gleam, 
Nor  tongue  can  tell,  nor  heart  can  dream. 

But  in  your  rifts  of  wondrous  light 
Wherewith  these  lower  fields  are  bright, 
In  every  strengthening  breeze  that  brings 
The  mountain-health  upon  its  wings. 
We  own  the  gift  of  Pentecost, 
And  not  one  hint  of  heaven  is  lost. 

Lucy  LARCONf. 


6o-  THE   MOUNTAINS. 


LINES 

Written  at  the  village  of  Passignano,  on  the  Lake 
OF  Thrasymene. 

nr^HE  mountains  stand  about  the  quiet  lake, 
-^       That  not  a  breath  its  azure  calm  may  break  ; 
No  leaf  of  these  sere  olive-trees  is  stirred, 
In  the  near  silence  far-off  sounds  are  heard  ; 
The  tiny  bat  is  flitting  overhead, 
The  hawthorn  doth  its  richest  odors  shed 
Into  the  dewy  air  ;  and  over  all, 
Veil  after  veil,  the  evening  shadows  fall, 
Withdrawing  one  by  one  each  glimmering  height. 
The  far,  and  then  the  nearer,  from  our  sight  — 
No  sign  surviving  in  this  tranquil  scene, 
That  strife  and  savage  tumult  here  have  been. 

But  if  the  pilgrim  to  the  latest  plain 
Of  carnage,  where  the  blood  hke  summer  rain 
Fell  but  the  other  day,  —  if  in  his  mind 
He  marvels  much  and  oftentimes  to  find 
With  what  success  has  Nature  each  sad  trace 
Of  man's  red  footmarks  labored  to  efface,  — 
What  wonder,  if  this  spot  we  tread  appears 
Guiltless  of  strife,  when  now  two  thousand  years 
Of  daily  reparation  have  gone  by, 
Since  it  resumed  its  own  tranquillity. 
This  calm  has  nothing  strange  ;  yet  not  the  less 
This  holy  evening's  solemn  quietness, 


SPR/.VG   ON  THE  PEAK.  6 1 

The  perfect  beauty  of  this  windless  lake, 
This  stillness  which  no  louder  murmurs  break 
Than  the  frogs  croaking  from  the  distant  sedge, 
These  vineyards  dressed  unto  the  water's  edge, 
This  hind  that  homeward  driving  the  slow  steer 
Tells  how  man's  daily  work  goes  forward  here, 
Have  each  a  power  upon  me,  while  I  drink 
The  influence  of  the  placid  time,  and  think 
How  gladly  the  sweet  mother  once  again 
Resumes  her  sceptre  and  benignant  reign. 
But  for  a  few  short  instants  scared  away 
By  the  mad  game,  the  cruel  impious  fray 
Of  her  distempered  cliildren  —  how  comes  back, 
And  leads  them  in  the  customary  track 
Of  blessing  once  again  ;  to  order  brings 
Anew  the  dislocated  frame  of  things, 
And  covers  up,  and  out  of  sight  conceals 
What  they  have  wrought  of  ill,  or  gently  heals. 

R.  C.  Trench. 


SPRING    ON    THE    PEAK. 

T  T  AVE  ye  seen   when    Spring's    arrowy  summons 

■■-  -^         goes  right  to  the  aim, 

And  some   mountain,  the  last  to  withstand  her,  that 

held  (he  alone 
While  the  vale  laughed  in  freedom  and  flowers)  on  a 

broad  bust  of  stone 
A  year's  snow  bound  about  for  a  breast-plate,  — leaves 

grasp  of  the  sheet  ? 
Fold  on  fold  all  at  once  it  crowds  thunderously  down 

to  his  feet, 


62  THE    MOUNTAINS. 

And  there  fronts  you,  stark,  black,  but  alive  yet :  your 
mountain  of  old, 

With  his  rents,  the  successive  bequeathings  of  ages 
untold,  — 

Yea,  each  harm  got  in  fighting  your  battles,  each  fur- 
row and  scar 

Of  his  head  thrust  twixt  you  and  the  tempest,  —  all 
hail,  there  they  are  ! 

Now  again  to  be  softened  with  verdure,  again  hold  the 
nest 

Of  the  dove,  tempt  the  goat  and  its  young  to  the  green 
on  its  crest 

For  their  food  in  the  ardors  of  summer  ! 

Robert  Browning. 

VESUVIUS. 

A  S  when  unto  a  mother,  having  chid 
-^^^     Her  child  in  anger,  there  have  straight  ensued 
Repentings  for  her  quick  and  angry  mood, 
Till  she  would  fain  see  all  its  traces  hid 
Quite  out  of  sight,  —  even  so  has  Nature  bid 
Fair  flowers,  that  on  the  scarred  earth  she  has  strewed, 
To  blossom,  and  called  up  the  taller  wood 
To  cover  what  she  ruined  and  undid. 
Oh  !  and  her  mood  of  anger  did  not  last 
More  than  an  instant ;  but  her  work  of  peace, 
Restoring  and  repairing,  comforting 
The  earth,  her  stricken  child,  will  never  cease  ; 
For  that  was  her  strange  work,  and  quickly  passed, 
To  this  her  genial  toil  no  end  the  years  shall  bring. 

R.  C.  Trench. 


COMO.  63 


COMO. 

'  '     By  lonely  roads,  where  over  Garda's  lake 
Their  brows  the  cloven-hearted  mountains  bent, 
To  lands  divine,  where  Como's  waters  make 
Twin  arms,  to  clasp  them  for  their  beauty's  sake  ! 

The  shapely  hills,  whose  summits  towered  remote 

In  rosy  air,  might  smile  in  soft  disdain 

Of  palaces  that  strung  a  jewelled  chain 

About  tlieir  feet,  and  far  off  seemed  to  float 

On  violet-misted  waters  ;  yet  they  wore 

Their  groves  and  gardens  like  a  festal  train, 

And  in  the  mirror  of  the  crystal  plain 

Steep  vied  with  steep,  shore  emulated  shore  ! 

The  halcyon  world 
Of  sleeping  wave,  and  velvet-folded  hill, 
And  stainless  air  and  sunshine  lay  so  still ! 
No  mote  of  vapor  on  the  mountains  curled  ; 
But  lucid,  gem-like,  blissful,  as  if  sin 
Or  more  than  gentlest  grief  had  never  been. 
Each  lovely  thing  of  tint  that  shone  impearled, 
As  dwelt  some  dim  beatitude  therein. 

Bavard  Taylor. 


64  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

RADICOFANI. 

(Extract.) 

npHIS  is  a  barren,  desolate  scene, 

-■-     Grim  and  gray,  with  scarce  a  tree, 
Gashed  with  many  a  wild  ravine 
Far  away  as  the  eye  can  see  ; 
Ne'er  a  home  for  miles  to  be  found 
Save  where  huddled  on  some  grim  peak 
A  village  chnging  in  fear  looks  round 
Over  the  country  vast  and  bleak, 
As  if  it  had  fled  from  the  lower  ground, 
Refuge  from  horrors  there  to  seek. 

Over  the  spare  and  furzy  soil 

With  never  a  waving  grain-field  sowed, 

Ruggedly  wind  with  weary  toil 

The  shining  bands  of  dusty  road,  — 

Down  through  the  river's  rocky  bed, 

That  is  white  and  dry  with  summer's  drought, 

Or  climbing  some  sandy  hillock's  head, 

Over  and  under,  in  and  out. 

Like  a  struggling  thing  by  madness  led, 

That  wanders  along  in  fear  and  doubt. 

What  are  those  green  spots  on  yon  sandy  slope 
Where  the  green  is  frayed  and  tattered  with  gray  i 
Are  they  only  rocks  —  or  sheep  that  crop 
The  meagre  pasture  ?  one  scarce  can  say. 
This  seems  not  a  place  for  flowers  —  but  behold  ! 
•   How  the  lupine  spreads  its  pink  around, 


THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS.  65 

And  the  clustered  ginestra  squanders  its  gold 

As  if  it  loved  this  barren  ground  ; 

And  surely  that -bird  is  over-bold 

That  dares  to  sing  o'er  that  grave-like  mound. 

It  is  dead  and  still  in  the  middle  noon, 

The  sand-beds  shine  with  a  blinding  light, 

The  cicali  dizzen  the  air  with  their  tune, 

And  the  sunshine  seems  like  a  curse  to  smite  ; 

The  mountains  around  their  shoulders  bare 

Gather  a  thin  and  shadowy  veil, 

And  shrink  from  the  fierce  and  scorching  glare  — 

And  close  to  the  grass  so  withered  and  pale 

Hovering  quivers  the  glassy  air, 

And  the  lizards  pant  in  their  emerald  mail. 

W.  VV.  Story. 


IN   THE    EUGANEAN    HILLS,    NORTH 
ITALY. 

'  A/TID  the  mountains  Euganean 
-'-'-*-   I  stood  listening  to  the  pasan 
With  which  the  legioned  rooks  did  hail 
The  sun's  uprise  majestical ; 
Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar, 
Through  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 
Like  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 
Bursts,  and  then,  as  clouds  of  even, 
Flecked  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 
In  the  unfathomable  sky. 
So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain, 
Starred  with  drops  of  golden  rain, 
5 


66  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods, 
As  in  silent  multitudes 
On  the  morning's  fitful  gale 
Through  the  broken  mist  they  sail ; 
And  the  vapors  cloven  and  gleaming 
Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming, 
Till  all  is  bright,  and  clear,  and  still, 
Round  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 
The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 
Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 
Islanded  by  cities  fair  ; 
Underneath  day's  azure  eyes 
Ocean's  nursling,  Venice,  lies,  — 
A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 
Amphitrite's  destined  halls, 
Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 
With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 
Lo  !  the  sun  upsprings  behind. 
Broad,  red,  radiant,  half-rechned 
On  the  level  quivering  line 
Of  the  waters  crystalline  ; 
And  before  that  chasm  of  light. 
As  within  a  furnace  bright, 
Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire 
Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire. 
Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 
To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies  ; 
As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 
From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise 


THE  EUGAXEAN  HILLS.  C7 

As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 


Noon  descends  around  me  now  : 
'Tis  the  noon  of  autumn's  .s:lo\v, 
When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 
Like  a  vaporous  amethyst, 
Or  an  air-dissolv6d  star 
Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far 
From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 
To  the  point  of  heaven's  pnjfound, 
P'ills  the  overflowing  sky  ; 
And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 
Underneath  ;  the  leaves  unsoddcn 
Where  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 
With  his  morning-winged  feet, 
Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet  ; 
And  the  red  and  golden  vines 
Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines 
The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness  ; 
The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less, 
Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 
In  the  windless  air;  the  flower 
Glimmering  at  my  feet ;  tlie  line 
Of  the  olive-sandalled  Apennine 
In  the  south  dimly-islanded  ; 
And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 
High  between  the  clouds  and  sun  ; 
And  of  living  things  each  one  ; 
And  my  spirit,  which  so  long 
Darkened  this  swift  stream  of  song. 


68  THE  MOUXTAIXS. 

Interpenetrated  lie 

By  the  glory  of  the  sky  ; 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 

Odor,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall, 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 

Peopling  the  lone  universe. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


SUNSET. 

(From  "  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage.") 

'T^HE  moon  is  up  and  yet  it  is  not  night  — 
-■-     Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her  —  a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 
Of  blue  FriuH's  mountains  ;   Heaven  is  free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colors  seems  to  be 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  West, 
Where  the  Day  joins  the  past  Eternity ; 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian's  crest 
Floats  through  the  azure  air  —  an  island  of  the  blest ! 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven  ;  but  still 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 
Roird  o'er  the  peak  of  the  fair  Rhoetian  hill, 
As  day  and  night  contending  were,  until 
Nature  reclaim'd  her  order  :  — gently  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-born  rose. 
Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glass'd  within  it 
glows. 


MOXAD.VOC.  69 

Fiird  with  tlie  face  of  heaven,  whicli  from  afar 
Comes  clown  upon  the  waters  ;  all  its  hues, 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star, 
Their  magical  variety  diffuse  : 
And  now  they  change  ;  a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains  ;  parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a  new  color  as  it  gasps  away, 
The  last  still  loveliest,  till  —  'tis  gone  —  and  all  is  gray. 

Lord  Byron. 

MONADNOC. 

TN  his  own  loom's  garment  dressed, 
^   By  his  own  bounty  blessed. 
Fast  abides  this  constant  giver. 
Pouring  many  a  cheerful  river  ; 
To  far  eyes,  an  aerial  isle 
Unploughed,  which  finer  spirits  pile. 
Which  morn  and  crimson  evening  paint 
For  bard,  for  lover,  and  for  saint ; 
The  country's  core, 
Inspirer,  prophet  evermore  ; 
Pillar  which  God  aloft  had  set 
So  that  men  might  it  not  forget ; 
It  should  be  their  life's  ornament. 
And  mix  itself  with  each  event ; 
Their  calendar  and  dial, 
Barometer  and  chemic  phial. 
Garden  of  berries,  perch  of  birds, 
Pasture  of  pool-haunting  herds. 
Graced  by  each  change  of  sum  untold, 
Earth-baking  heat,  stone-cleaving  cold. 


70  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

The  Titan  heeds  his  own  affairs, 
Wide  rents  and  high  alliance  shares  ; 
Mysteries  of  color  daily  laid 
By  the  great  sun  in  light  and  shade  ; 
And  sweet  varieties  of  chance 
And  the  mystic  seasons'  dance  ; 
And  thief-like  step  of  liberal  hours 
Thawing  snow-drift  into  flowers. 
Oh,  wondrous  craft  of  plant  and  stone 
By  eldest  science  done  and  shown  ! 


R.  W.  Emerson. 


MONADNOC'S    WELCOME. 

A  H  !  welcome,  if  thou  bring 
•*-  ^  My  secret  in  thy  brain  ; 

If  thou  trowest 
How  the  chemic  eddies  play, 
Pole  to  pole,  and  what  they  say  ; 
And  that  these  gray  crags 
Not  on  crags  are  hung. 
But  beads  are  of  a  rosary 
On  prayer  and  music  strung  ; 
And,  credulous,  through  the  granite  seeming, 
Seest  the  smile  of  Reason  beaming  ;  — 
Can  thy  style-discerning  eye 
The  hidden-working  Builder  spy. 
Who  builds,  yet  makes  no  chips,  no  din, 
With  hammer  soft  as  snow-flake's  flight ;  — 
Knowest  thou  this  1 


MOXADXOC'S   JVELCOME.  71 

0  pilo^rim,  wandering;  not  amiss  ! 
Already  my  rocks  lie  light, 
And  soon  my  cone  will  sj)in. 

For  the  world  was  built  in  order, 
And  the  atoms  march  in  tune  ; 
Rhyme  the  pipe,  and  Time  the  warder, 
Cannot  forget  the  sun,  the  moon, 
Orb  and  atom  forth  they  prance, 
When  they  hear  from  far  the  rune  ; 
None  so  backward  in  the  troop, 
When  the  music  and  the  dance 
Reach  his  place  and  circumstance, 
But  knows  the  sun-creating  sound, 
And,  though  a  pyramid,  will  bound. 

Monadnoc  is  a  mountain  strong, 

Tall  and  good  my  kind  among  ; 

But,  well  I  know,  no  mountain  can 

Measure  with  a  perfect  man. 

For  it  is  on  zodiacs  writ, 

Adamant  is  soft  to  wit : 

And  when  the  greater  comes  again  ^ 

With  my  secret  in  his  brain, 

1  shall  pass,  as  glides  my  shadow 
Daily  over  hill  and  meadow. 

Through  all  time,  in  light  and  gloom, 
Well  I  hear  the  approaching  feet 
On  the  flinty  pathway  beat 
Of  him  that  cometh,  and  shall  come  ; 
Of  him  who  shall  as  lightly  bear 
My  daily  load  of  woods  and  streams, 


72  THE  MOUNTAIXS. 

As  doth  this  round  sky-cleaving  boat 
Which  never  strains  its  rocky  beams  ; 
Whose  timbers,  as  they  silent  float, 
Alps  and  Caucasus  uprear, 
And  the  long  Alleghanies  here, 
And  all  town-sprinkled  lands  that  be. 
Sailing  through  stars  with  all  their  history. 

Every  morn  I  lift  my  head, 

Gaze  o'er  New  England  underspread, 

South  from  Saint  Lawrence  to  the  Sound, 

From  Katskill  east  to  the  sea-bound. 

Anchored  fast  for  many  an  age, 

I  await  the  bard  and  sage, 

Who,  in  large  thoughts,  like  fair  pearl-seed, 

Shall  string  Monadnoc  like  a  bead. 

R.  W.   Emerson. 


ST.    MARY'S    LAKE. 

]^rOR  fen,  nor  sedge, 
•^^      Pollute  the  pure  lake's  crystal  edge  ; 
Abrupt  and  sheer,  the  mountains  sink 
At  once  upon  the  level  brink ; 
And  just  a  trace  of  silver  sand 
Marks  where  the  water  meets  the  land. 
Far  in  the  mirror,  bright  and  blue. 
Each  hill's  huge  outline  you  may  view ; 
Shaggy  with  heath,  but  lonely  bare, 
Nor  tree,  nor  bush,  nor  brake  is  there, 
Save  where,  of  land,  yon  slender  line 
Bears  'thwart  the  lake  the  scattered  pine. 


ST.   MARY'S  LAKE.  73 

Yet  even  this  nakedness  has  power, 

And  aids  the  feehng  of  the  hour  : 

Nor  thicket,  dell,  nor  copse  you  spy. 

Where  living  thing  concealed  might  lie  ; 

Nor  point,  retiring,  hides  a  dell. 

Where  swain,  or  woodman  lone,  might  dwell  ; 

There's  nothing  left  to  fancy's  guess. 

You  see  that  all  is  loneliness  ; 

And  silence  aids,  — though  the  steep  hills 

Send  to  the  lake  a  thousand  rills ; 

In  summer  tide,  so  soft  they  weep, 

The  sound  but  lulls  the  ear  asleep  ; 

Your  horse's  hoof-tread  sounds  too  rude, 

So  stilly  is  the  solitude. 

Naught  living  meets  the  eye  or  ear, 
But  well  I  ween  the  dead  are  near  ; 
For  though,  in  feudal  strife,  a  foe 
Has  lain  Our  Lady's  chapel  low, 
Yet  still,  beneath  the  hallowed  soil, 
The  peasant  rests  him  from  his  toil. 
And,  dying,  bids  his  bones  be  laid. 
Where  erst  his  simple  fathers  prayed. 

Sir  \V.   Scott. 


74  THE  MOUNTAINS. 


CADWALLON'S    HUT. 

'T^HAT  lonely  dwelling  stood  among  the  hills, 
By  a  gray  mountain-stream  ;  just  elevate 
Above  the  winter  torrents  did  it  stand, 
Upon  a  craggy  bank  ;  an  orchard  slope 
Arose  behind,  and  joyous  was  the  scene 
In  early  summer,  when  those  antic  trees 
Shone  with  their  blushing  blossoms,  and  the  flax 
Twinkled  beneath  the  breeze  its  liveliest  green. 
But  save  the  flax-field  and  that  orchard  slope, 
All  else  was  desolate  ;  and  now  it  wore 
One  sober  hue  :  the  narrow  vale,  which   wound 
Among  the  hills,  was  gray  with  rocks,  that  peer'd 
Above  its  shallow  soil  ;  the  mountain  side 
Was  loose  with  stones  bestrown,  which  oftentimes 
Clattered  adown  the  steep,  beneath  the  foot 
Of  straggling  goat  dislodged  :  or  tower'd  with  crags, 
One  day  when  winter's  work  hath  loosened  them. 
To  thunder  down.     All  things  assorted  well 
With  that  gray  mountain  hue  ;  the  low  stone  lines. 
Which  scarcely  seemed  to  be  the  work  of  man. 
The  dwelling  rudely  rear'd  with  stones  unhewn. 
The  stubble  flax,  the  crooked  apple-trees. 
Gray  with  their  fleecy  moss  and  mistletoe, 
The  white-barked  birch,  now  leafless,  and  the  ash, 
Whose  knotted  roots  were  like  the  rifted  rock 
Through  which    they  forced  their  way.     Adown   the 

vale. 
Broken  by  stones,  and  o'er  a  stony  bed^ 
Roll'd  the  loud  mountain-stream. 

R.    SOUTHEY. 


IN  THE    TROSACHS.  75 

IN    THE   TROSACHS. 

(From  the  "Lady  of  tlie  Lake.") 

'nr^HE  western  waves  of  ebbinc^  clay 

-*■       Rolled  o'er  the  glen  their  level  way  ; 
Each  purple  peak,  each  flinty  spire, 
Was  bathed  in  floods  of  livins:  fire. 
But  not  a  setting  beim  could  glow 
Within  the  dark  ravines  below, 
Where  twined  the  path  in  shadow  hid, 
Round  many  a  rocky  pyramid, 
Shooting  abruptly  from  the  dell 
Its  thunder-splintered  pinnacle  ; 
Round  many  an  insulated  mass. 
The  native  bulwarks  of  the  pass, 
Huge  as  the  tower  which  builders  vain 
Presumptuous  piled  on  Shinar's  plain. 
The  rocky  summits,  split  and  rent, 
Formed  turret,  dome,  or  battlement, 
Or  seemed  fantastically  set 
With  cupola  or  minaret. 
Wild  crests  as  pagod  ever  decked, 
Or  mosque  of  eastern  architect. 
Nor  were  these  earth-born  castles  bare, 
Nor  lacked  they  many  a  banner  fair  ; 
For,  from  their  shivered  brows  displayed. 
Far  o'er  the  unfathomable  glade. 
All  twinkling  wMth  the  dew-drops'  sheen. 
The  brier-rose  fell  in  streamers  green, 
And  creeping  shrubs,  of  thousand  dyes. 
Waved  in  the  west-wind's  summer's  sighs. 


76  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

Boon  Nature  scattered,  free  and  wild. 
Each  plant  or  flower,  the  mountain's  child. 
Here  eglantine  embalmed  the  air, 
Hawthorn  and  hazel  mingled  there ; 
The  primrose  pale  and  violet  flower 
Found  in  each  cliff  a  narrow  bower  ; 
Foxglove  and  nightshade,  side  by  side, 
Emblems  of  punishment  and  pride. 
Grouped  their  dark  hues  with  every  stain 
The  weather-beaten  crags  retain. 
With  boughs  that  quaked  at  every  breath, 
Gray  birch  and  aspen  wept  beneath  ; 
Aloft,  the  ash  and  w^arrior  oak 
Cast  anchor  in  the  rifted  rock  ; 
And,  higher  yet,  the  pine-tree  hung 
His  shattered  trunk,  and  frequent  flung. 
Where  seemed  the  cliffs  to  meet  on  high. 
His  boughs  athwart  the  narrowed  sky. 
Highest  of  all,  wdiere  white  peaks  glanced, 
Wliere  glist'ning  streamers  waved  and  danced, 
The  wanderer's  e3'e  could  barely  view 
The  summer  heaven's  delicious  blue  ; 
So  wondrous  wild,  the  whole  might  seem 
The  scenery  of  a  fairy  dream. 

Onward,  amid  the  copse  'gan  peep 
A  narrow^  inlet,  still  and  deep. 
Affording  scarce  such  breadth  of  brim 
As  served  the  wild  duck's  brood  to  swim. 
Lost  for  a  space,  through  thickets  veering, 
But  broader  when  again  appearing, 
Tall  rocks  and  tufted  knolls  their  face 
Could  on  the  dark-blue  mirror  trace  ; 


IN   THE    TROSACIIS.  'J'J 

And  farther  as  the  hunter  strayed, 
Still  broader  sweep  its  channels  made. 
The  shaggy  mounds  no  longer  stood, 
Emerging  from  entangled  wood, 
But,  wave-encircled,  seemed  to  float. 
Like  castle  girdled  with  its  moat ; 
Yet  broader  floods  extending  still 
Divide  them  from  their  parent  hill, 
Till  each,  retiring,  claims  to  be 
An  islet  in  an  inland  sea. 

And  now,  to  issue  from  the  glen. 

No  pathway  meets  the  wanderer's  ken, 

Unless  he  climb,  with  footing  nice, 

A  far-projecting  precipice. 

The  broom's  tough  root  his  ladder  made, 

The  hazel  saplings  lent  their  aid ; 

And  thus  an  airy  point  he  won, 

Where,  gleaming  with  the  setting  sun. 

One  burnished  sheet  of  living  gold. 

Loch  Katrine  lay  beneath  him  rolled  ; 

In  all  her  length  far  winding  lay, 

With  promontory,  creek,  and  bay. 

And  islands  that,  empurpled  bright. 

Floated  amid  the  livelier  light. 

And  mountains,  that  like  giants  stand, 

To  sentinel  enchanted  land. 

High  on  the  south,  huge  Ben-venue 

Down  on  the  lake  in  masses  threw 

Crags,  knolls,  and  mounds,  confusedly  hurled, 

The  frairinents  of  an  earlier  world  : 


7 8  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

A  wildering  forest  feathered  o'er 
His  ruined  sides  and  summit  hoar, 
While  on  the  north,  through  middle  air, 
Ben-an  heaved  high  his  forehead  bare. 


Sir  W.  Scott. 


THE    FIERY   BIRTH    OF   THE   HILLS. 


O 


HOARY  Hills  !   tho'  ye  look  aged,  ye 


Are  but  the  children  of  a  latter  time  : 

Methinks  I  see  ye  in  that  hour  sublime, 
When  from  the  hissing  cauldron  of  the  sea 
Ye  were  upheaven,  while  so  terribly 

The  Clouds  boiled,  and  the  Lightning  scorched  ye 
bare. 
Wild,  new-born,  blind  Titans  in  agony, 

Ye  glared  at  heaven  through  folds  of  fiery  hair ! 
Then,  in  an  instant,  while  ye  trembled  thus, 
A  hand  from  heaven,  white  and  luminous, 

Pass'd  o'er  your  brows,  and  husht  your  fiery  breath 
Lo  I  one  by  one  the  still  Stars  gathered  round. 
The  great  Deep  glass'd  itself,  and  with  no  sound 

A  cold  Snow  glimmering  fell,  and  all  was  still  as 
death. 

Robert  Buchanan. 


R/SnVG   OF  77/ E  HILLS.  79 


GLENGARRIFF. 

A    SUN-BURST  on  the  Hay  !     Turn  and  behold  ! 
^        The  restless  waves,  resplendent  in  their  i^Iory, 

Sweep  flittering  past  yon  purpled  promontory, 
I'right  as  Apollo's  breastplate.     Bathed  in  gold, 
Yon  l)astioned  islet  gleams.     Thin  mists  are  rolled, 
Translucent,  through  each  glen.     A  mantle  hoary 
Veils  those  peaked  hills,  shapely  as  e'er  in  story, 
Delphic,  or  Alpine,  or  Vesuvian  old. 
Minstrels  have  sung.     From  rock  and  headland  proud 
The  wild  wood  spreads  its  arms  around  the  bay. 
The  manifold  mountain  cones,  now  dark,  now  bright, 
Now  seen,  now  lost,  alternate  from  rich  light 
To  spectral  shade  :  and  each  dissolving  cloud 
Reveals  new  mountains  while  it  floats  away. 

Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere. 


THE    RISING    OF   THE    HILLS. 

O  INKING,  sinking,  all  the  country  slowly  sank  be- 

*^  neath  the  waves  ; 

And  the  ocean  swept  the  forests,  reptiles,  dragons,  to 

their  graves  ; 
Afterwards  with  shells   old  Ocean  all  the  conquered 

country  paves. 

Singing,  "  It  is  mine  for  ever  !  "  —  not  for  ever,  not  for 
long. 

For  the  subterranean  forces  laughed  at  Ocean's  boast- 
ful song. 

Lifting  uj)  the  sunken  country,  for  their  backs  were 
broatl  antl  stronjr. 


8o  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Till  the  sea-shells  were  uplifted  even  to  the  mountain 

peak. 
Far  below  the  waves   are  moaning,   but  with  voices 

faint  and  weak. 
Sorrowing  for  their  lost   dominion  and  the  toys   they 

vainly  seek. 

Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton. 


THE   ALPS    FROM    MILAN. 

T   CLIMBED  the  roofs  at  break  of  day  ; 
-*■   Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 
I  stood  among  the  silent  statues, 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  faintly  flushed,  how  phantom-fair, 
Was  Monte  Rosa,  hanging  there 

A  thousand  shadowy-pencill'd  valleys 
And  snowy  dells  in  a  golden  air. 

Alfred  Tennyson- 


MISTS    ON    BEN    LOMOND. 

T    OOK  down  that  dark  ravine, 

-*— '  And  watch  the  white  and  swiftly-climbing  mist 

Rolling  in  silence  up  the  narrow  fissure 

Between  those  rugged,  black,  forbidding  rocks, 

Like  troops  of  angels  cHmbing  fearlessly 

Into  a  dark,  and  rough,  and  hardened  soul, 

Storming  its  blackened  citadel  with  love  ! 

p.  G.   Hamerton. 


MOUNT  OF  OLIVES.  8 1 


MOUNT    OF    OLIVES. 

SWEETE  sacred  hill !  on  whose  fair  bro\ 
My  Saviour  sate,  shall  I  allow 
Lanu^uage  to  love 
And  Idolize  some  shade  or  grove, 
Neglecting  thee  ?  such  ill-plac'd  wit, 
Conceit,  or  call  it  what  you  please, 
Is  the  braine's  fit, 
And  meere  disease. 

Cotswold,  and  Cooper  s  both  have  met 
With  learned  swaines,  and  Eccho  yet 

Their  pipes,  and  wit ; 
But  thou  sleep'st  in  a  deepe  neglect, 
Untouch'd  by  any  ;  And  what  need 
The  sheep  bleat  thee  a  silly  Lay, 

That  heard'st  both  reed 

And  sheepward  play  ? 

Yet  if  Poets  mind  thee  well. 
They  shall  find  thou  art  their  hill. 

And  fountaine  too. 
Their  Lord  with  thee  had  most  to  doe. 
He  wept  once,  waked  whole  nights  on  thee 
And  from  thence  (his  sufferings  ended) 

Unto  glorie 

Was  attended. 

Being  there,  this  spacious  ball 
Is  but  his  narrow  footstoole  all ; 

And  what  we  thinke 
Unsearchable,  now  with  one  winke 
6 


82  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

He  doth  comprise.     But  in  this  aire 
When  he  did  stay  to  beare  our  111 

And  sinne,  this  Hill 

Was  then  his  chaire. 

Henry  Vaughan. 


AN    ITALIAN    SUNSET. 

TT  7E  stood 

^  *     Looking  upon  the  evening,  and  the  flood 
Which  lay  between  the  city  and  the  shore, 
Paved  with  the  image  of  the  sky.     The  hoar 
And  aery  Alps,  towards  the  north,  appeared 
Through  mist  —  an  heaven-sustaining  bulwark  reared 
Between  the  east  and  west ;  and  half  the  sky 
Was  roofed  wnth  clouds  of  rich  emblazonry, 
Dark  purple  at  the  zenith,  which  still  grew 
Down  the  steep  w^est  into  a  wondrous  hue 
Brighter  than  burning  gold,  even  to  the  rent 
Where  the  swift  sun  yet  paused  in  his  descent 
Among  the  many-folded  hills.     They  were 
Those  famous  Euganean  hills,  which  bear. 
As  seen  from  Lido  through  the  harbor  piles, 
The  likeness  of  a  clump  of  peaked  isles. 
And  then,  as  if  the  earth  and  sea  had  been 
Dissolved  into  one  lake  of  fire,  were  seen 
Those  mountains  towering,  as  from  waves  of  flame, 
Around  the  vaporous  sun  ;  from  which  there  came 
The  inmost  purple  spirit  of  light,  and  made 
Their  very  peaks  transparent. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


THE  RAINBOW.  %l 


THE    RAINBOW. 


Mv  heart  leaps  up  when  I  beliold 
A  Kainbow  in  the  sky. 


Wordsworth. 


TT  was  a  day  of  shower  and  sun, 
•*■   By  summer  breezes  softly  fanned, 
Amongst  the  vales  and  mountains  dun, 

And  sprinkled  Lakes  of  Cumberland  : 
Such  day  as  best  that  land  may  choose, 

Where  Nature's  choicest  gifts  have  striven, 
And  Earth  puts  forth  her  freshest  hues 

To  sparkle  in  the  light  of  heaven. 

I  passed  along  the  mountain  side, 

And  watched  the  falling  drops  that  broke 
The  crystal  Lake's  transparent  tide, 

While  hills  beyond  in  sunshine  woke  : 
And  marked  the  gleams  that  passing  o'er 

Brought  out  in  clear  distinctive  view 
The  hcathered  outlines  that  before 

Were  melted  into  shapeless  blue. 

But  soon  a  sight  of  new  surprise 

Called  off  my  thoughts  from  even  flow  : 
I  saw  a  rainbow  arch  arise 

And  span  half-way  the  vale  below. 
In  bold  relief  it  stood  displayed 

Against  the  further  mountain's  side  ; 
And  bolder  still  in  darkest  shade 

Towered  up  that  mountain's  loftier  pride. 


84  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Most  beautiful  it  was  to  trace 

That  blended  arch  of  sparkling  rain 
Rise  gently  upward  from  the  base, 

And  fall  as  gently  down  again. 
That  faultless  outline's  perfect  mould, 

Those  blended  hues  in  fair  degree  ; 
Bat  yet,  though  beauteous  to  behold, 

It  was  no  sight  of  joy  to  me. 

For  I  in  southern  lands  had  dwelt, 

Where  hills  are  low  and  clouds  are  high  ; 
And,  taught  unconsciously,  had  felt 

That  bow  an  inmate  of  the  sky. 
And  fondly  deemed  that  arch's  span. 

That  soaring  pile  that  sprang  to  birth, 
A  breadth  beyond  the  reach  of  man, 

A  height  above  the  touch  of  earth. 

It  was  a  shape  of  joy  and  praise, 

The  welcome  "  rainbow  in  the  sky ;  " 
Linked  with  young  childhood's  hohest  gaze 

And  poets'  sweetest  minstrelsy  ; 
And  sight  it  was  of  saddening  pain 

To  find  the  covenant  bow  shrunk  down, 
A  humble  inmate  of  the  plain, 

A  mountain's  tributary  crown. 

T.    BlRBIDGE. 


A   STILL   DAY  IN  ACTUMX.  85 


A    STILL    DAY    IN    AUTUMN. 

T  LOVE  to  wander  tlirough  tlie  woodlands  hoary, 
■*■     In  the  soft  Hght  of  an  autumnal  day, 
When  Summer  gathers  up  her  robes  of  glory, 
And  like  a  dream  of  beauty  glides  away. 

How  through  each  loved,  familiar  path  she  lingers, 
Serenely  smiling  through  the  golden  mist. 

Tinting  the  wild  grape  with  her  dewy  fingers, 
Till  the  cool  emerald  turns  to  amethyst. 

Kindling  the  faint  stars  of  the  hazel,  shining 

To  light  the  gloom  of  Autumn's  mouldering  halls, 

With  hoary  plumes  the  clematis  entwining, 

Where  o'er  the  rock  her  withered  garland  falls. 

Warm  lights  are  on  the  sleepy  uplands  waning 
Beneath  dark  clouds  along  the  horizon  rolled, 

Till  the  slant  sunbeams  through  their  fringes  raining, 
Bathe  all  the  hills  in  melancholy  gold. 

The  moist  winds  breathe  of  crisped  leaves  and  flowers 
In  the  damp  hollows  of  the  woodland  sown. 

Mingling  the  freshness  of  autumnal  showers 
With  spicy  airs  from  cedarn  alleys  blown. 

Beside  the  brook  and  on  the  umbered  meadow, 
Where  yellow  fern-tufts  fleck  the  fided  ground, 

With  folded  lids  beneath  their  palmy  shadow 
The  gentian  aods,  in  dewy  slumbers  bound. 

Upon  those  soft,  fringed  lids  the  bee  sits  brooding 
Like  a  fond  lover,  loth  to  say  farewell  ; 

Or,  with  shut  wings,  through  silken  folds  intruding, 
Creeps  hear  her  heart  his  drowsy  tale  to  tell. 


S6  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

The  little  birds  upon  the  hillside  lonely- 
Flit  noiselessly  along  from  spray  to  spray, 

Silent  as  a  sweet,  wandering  thought  that  only 
Shows  its  bright  wings,  and  softly  glides  away. 

The  scentless  flowers,  in  the  warm  sunlight  dreaming, 
Forget  to  breathe  their  fulness  of  delight, 

And  through  the  tranced  woods  soft  airs  are  streaming, 
Still  as  the  dew-fall  of  the  summer  night. 

So,  in  my  heart  a  sweet,  unwonted  feehng 
Stirs,  like  the  wind  in  ocean's  hollow  shell. 

Through  all  its  secret  chambers  sadly  stealing, 
Yet  finds  no  word  its  mystic  charm  to  tell. 

Sarah  Helen  Whitman, 


DYING    SUMMER. 

/^N  tawny  hills  in  faded  splendor  drest, 

^^     Of  rusty  purple  and  of  tarnished  gold. 
Now  like  some  eastern  monarch  sad  and  old 

The  discrowned  Summer  lieth  down  to  rest ! 

A  mournful  mist  hangs  o'er  the  mellow  plain, 

O'er  watery  meads  that  slide  down  pine-clad  heights. 
And  wine-red  woods  where  song  no  more  delights  ; 

But  only  wounded  birds  cry  out  in  pain. 

A  pallid  glory  lingers  in  the  sky. 

Faint  scents  of  wilding  flowers  float  in  the  air, 
All  Nature's  voices  murmur  in  despdir  : 

"Was  Summer  crowned  so  late  —  so  soon  to  "die  ?  " 

But  with  a  royal  smile,  she  whispers,  "  Cease  ! 

In  life  is  joy  and  triumph,  death  is  peace  !  " 

M.  Betham-Edwards. 


I'KOSE  AND  SONG.  87 


EVENING    IN    IRELAND. 

TI?AIR  was  that  eve,  as  if  from  earth  away 
-^        All  trace  of  sin  and  sorrow 
Passed,  in  the  li^^ht  of  the  eternal  day 

That  knows  nor  night  nor  morrow. 

The  pale  and  shadowy  mountains  in  the  dim 

And  glowing  distance  piled  ! 
A  sea  of  light  along  the  horizon's  rim, 

Unljroken,  undefiled ! 

Blue  sky,  and  cloud,  and  grove,  and  hill,  and  glen, 

The  form  and  face  of  man, 
Beamed  with  unwonted  beauty,  as  if  then 

New  earth  and  heaven  began. 

Rev.  Dr    Murray. 


PROSE   AND    SONG. 

ILOOK'D  upon  a  plain  of  green. 
That  some  one  call'd  the  land  of  prose, 
Where  many  living  things  were  seen 
In  movement  or  repose. 

I  look'd  upon  a  stately  hill 

That  well  was  named  the  mount  of  song. 
Where  colden  shadows  dwelt  at  will 


But  most  this  fact  my  wonder  bred, 

Though  known  by  all  the  nobly  wise,  — 

It  was  the  mountain  streams  that  fed 

The  fair  green  plain's  amenities. 

John  Stirling. 


88  THE  MOUNTAINS. 


EXTRACT   FROM    "THE    LOST   BOWER." 

f~^  REEN  the  land  is  where  my  daily 
^-^      Steps  in  jocund  childhood  played,  — 
Dimpled  close  with  hill  and  valley, 
Dappled  very  close  with  shade  ; 
Summer   snow   of    apple-blossoms  running   up   from 
glade  to  glade. 

There  is  one  hill  I  see  nearer, 
In  my  vision  of  the  rest ; 
And  a  little  wood  seems  clearer. 
As  it  climbeth  from  the  west, 
Side  way  from  the  tree -locked  valley  to  the  airy  upland 
crest. 

Small  the  wood  is,  green  with  hazels. 
And,  completing  the  ascent, 
Where  the  wind  blows  and  sun  dazzles. 
Thrills  in  leafy  tremblement ; 
Like   a  heart   that,    after    climbing,   beateth    quickly 
through  content. 

Not  a  step  the  wood  advances 
O'er  the  open  hill-top's  bound  ; 
There,  in  green  arrest,  the  branches 
See  their  image  on  the  ground  : 
You  may  walk  beneath  them  smihng,  glad  with  sight 
and  glad  with  sound. 

For  you  hearken  on  your  right  hand. 

How  the  birds  do  leap  and  call 

In  the  green  wood,  out  of  sight  and 


SHASTA.  89 

Out  of  reach  and  fear  of  all ; 
And  the  squirrels   crack    the    filberts,   through   their 
cheerful  madrigal. 

On  your  left,  the  sheep  are  cropping 
The  slant  grass  and  daisies  pale  ; 
And  five  apple-trees  stand  dropping 
Separate  shadows  toward  the  vale, 
Over  which,  in  choral  silence,  the  hills  look  you  their 
"All  hail!" 

Far  out,  kindled  by  each  other, 
Shining  hills  on  hills  arise; 
Close  as  brother  leans  to  brother, 
When  they  press  beneath  the  eyes 
Of   some  father  praying  blessings  from  the  gifts  of 
Paradise. 

While  beyond,  above  them  mounted, 
And  above  their  woods  also, 
Malvern  hills,  for  mountains  counted 
Not  unduly,  loom  a-row,  — 
Keepers  of  Piers  Plowman's  visions,  through  the  sun- 
shine and  the  snow. 

E.  B.  Browning. 

SHASTA. 

A  ROUND  whose  hoar  and  mighty  head 
"^^^  Still  rolled  a  sunset  sea  of  red. 
While  troops  of  clouds  a  space  below 
Were  drifting  wearily  and  slow, 
As  seeking  shelter  for  the  night, 
Like  weary  sea-birds  in  their  flight. 

JOAQUTN    MiLI.F.R. 


90  THE   MOUNTAIiYS. 


AMONG   THE    FIR-TREES. 

/^N  the  bare  hill-top,  by  the  pinewood's  edge,  how 

^-^     joyously  rang  the  noise 

Of  the  mountain  wind  in  the  topmost  boughs  !  a  spell 

there  was  in  its  voice. 
It  drew  me   to  leave  the  goodly  sight  of   the  plain 

sweeping  far  away, 
And  enter  the  solemnly  shaded  depths  to  hear  what 

the  trees  would  say. 

But  no  sooner  I  trod  the  russet  floor  than  hushed  were 

the  magic  tones  : 
No  stir  biit  the  flight  of  a  startled  bird,  no  sound  but 

my  foot  on  the  cones. 
All  silently  rose  the  stately  shafts,  kirtled  with  lichens 

gi'ay, 
And  the  sunlight-flakes  on  their  reddening  tops  were 

as  still  and  unmoved  as  they. 

Was  it  joy  or  dread  that  pressed  my  heart?     I  felt  as 

one  who  must  hear 
Some  long-kept  secret,  and  knows  not  as   yet  if    it 

bring  him  hope  or  fear  : 
I  stood  as  still  as  the  solemn  firs,  and  hearkened  with 

waiting  mind  ; 
Then   I   heard  far  away  in  the   topmost  boughs  the 

eternal  sough  of  the  wind. 

And  the  thrill  of  that  mystic  murmur  so  entered  my 

listening  heart. 
That  the  very  soul  of  the  forest  trees  became  with  my 

soul  a  part ; 


AMONG    THE  FIR-TREES.  91 

I  seemed  to  be  raised  and  borne  aloft  in  that  ever- 
ascending  strain, 

With  a  throb  too  solemn  and  deep  for  joy,  too  perfect 
and  pure  for  pain. 

Many  voices  there  are  in  Nature's  choir,  and  none  but 

were  good  to  hear 
Had  we  mastered  the  laws  of  their  music  well,  and 

could  read  their  meaninc^  clear  ; 
But  we  who  can  feel  at  Nature's  touch  cannot  think  as 

yet  with  her  thought. 
And  I  only  know  that  the  sough  of  the  firs  with  a  spell 

of  its  own  is  fraught. 

For  the  wind  when  it  howls  in  the  chimneys  at  night 

hath  a  heavy  and  dreary  sound 
Of  the  dull  everlasting  treadmill  of  life,  which  goes  so 

wearily  round  ; 
And  the  choirs  of  waves  on  the  long-drawn  sands,  too 

well  I  hear  in  their  strain 
The  throb  of  our  human  anguish  deep,  where  triumph 

wrestles  with  pain. 

But  neither  passion  nor  sorrow  I  hear  in  this  rhythmic 
steady  course. 

Only  the  movement  resistless  and  strong  of  some  all- 
pervading  Force  : 

The  one  universal  Life  which  moves  the  whole  of  the 
outward  plan. 

Which  throbs  in  winds,  and  waters,  and  flowers,  in 
insect,  and  bird,  and  man. 

Oh,  would  that  the  unknown  finer  touch  which  makes 
us  other  than  those 


92  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

Did  not  hold  us  so  far  asunder  in  soul  from  their  har- 
mony and  repose  ! 

The  self-same  fountain  doth  life  and  growth  to  us  and 
to  them  impart. 

But  only  at  moments  we  taste  and  know  the  peace 
which  is  Nature's  heart. 

And  yet  it  may  be  that  long,  long  hence,  when  icons 

of  effort  have  pass'd, 
We  shall  come  —  not  blindly  impelled,  but  free  —  to 

the  orbit  of  order  at  last, 
And  a  finer  peace  shall  be  wrought  out  of  pain  than 

the  stars  in  their  courses  know  I  — 
Ah  me  !  but  my  soul  is  in  sorrow  till  then,  and  the  feet 

of  the  years  are  slow  ! 

Fraser's  Magazine. 


THE   BROOK   AND   THE   WAVE. 

npHE  brooklet  came  from  the  mountain, 
-*-       As  sang  the  bard  of  old, 
Running  with  feet  of  silver 
Over  the  sands  of  gold  ! 

Far  away  in  the  briny  ocean 

There  rolled  a  turbulent  wave, 
Now  singing  along  the  sea-beach, 

Now  howling  along  the  cave. 

And  the  brooklet  has  found  the  billow, 
Though  they  flowed  so  far  apart. 

And  has  filled  with  its  freshness  and  sweetness 
That  turbulent,  bitter  heart ! 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


MOUXTAIN  HEART' S-EASE.  93 


THE    MOUNTAIN    HEART'S-EASE. 

"O  Y  scattered  rocks  and  turbid  waters  shifting, 
^^  By  furrowed  glade  and  dell, 
To  feverish  men  thy  calm,  sweet  face  uplifting, 
Thou  stayest  them  to  tell 

The  delicate  thought  that  cannot  find  expression, 

For  ruder  speech  too  fair, 
That,  like  thy  petals,  trembles  in  possession. 

And  scatters  on  the  air. 

The  miner  pauses  in  his  rugged  labor, 

And,  leaning  on  his  spade, 
Laughingly  calls  unto  his  comrade-neighbor 

To  see  thy  charms  displayed; 

But  in  his  eyes  a  mist  unwonted  rises. 

And  for  a  moment  clear, 
Some  sw^eet  home  face  his  foolish  thought  surprises 

And  passes  i:i  a  tear,  — 

Some  boyish  vision  of  his  Eastern  village. 

Of  uneventful  toil, 
Where  golden  harvests  followed  quiet  tillage 

Above  a  peaceful  soil : 

One  moment  only,  for  the  pick,  uplifting, 

Through  root  and  fibre  cleaves, 
And  on  the  muddy  current  slowly  drifting 

Are  swept  thy  bruised  leaves. 


94  THE  MOUXTALYS. 

And  yet,  O  poet,  in  thy  homely  fashion, 

Thy  work  thou  dost  fulfil, 
For  on  the  turbid  current  of  his  passion 

Thy  face  is  shining  still ! 

Bret  Harte. 


HAREBELLS. 

TTIGH  in  the  clefts  of  the  rock,  'mid  the  cedars, 
-*-  -*-   Hangeth  the  harebell  the  waterfall  nigh. 
Blue  are  its  petals,  deep  blue  tinged  with  purple, 
Mystical  tintings  that  mirror  the  sky. 

Amber  the  waters  that,  foaming  and  dashing, 
Whirl  the  wild  spray  far  aloft  in  the  air ; 
Jagged  the  rocks  that  piled  stratum  on  stratum 
Earth's  primal  secrets  and  life-throes  liy  bare. 

Sturdy  green  cedars  and  graceful  blue  harebell, 
Wild  amber  waters  and  opaline  spray, 
Wondrous  brown  rocks  with  strange  tales  of  past  ages, 
All  over-archeth  the  clear  summer  day. 

Ring  out,  O  harebell,  thy  loveliest  measures, 
Chime  with  the  falling  of  waters  below  ; 
Earth's  brightest  glories,  her  purest  of  treasures. 
Spring  from,  some  agony,  some  needful  woe. 

Signed  with  the  cross  is  the  form  of  dear  Nature, 
Heart's  blood  still  ransoms  each  gift  from  the  soul, 
High  over  all  bend  the  arms  of  the  Maker, 
Tenderly  folding  and  blending  the  whole. 

L.     D.     PVCHOWSKA. 


UP  IN  THE    WILD.  95 


UP    IiN   THE   WILD. 

T  TP  in  a  wild  where  no  one  comes  to  look 
^^    There  lives  and  sings  a  little  lonely  brook  : 
Liveth  and  singeth  in  the  dreary  pines, 
Yet  creepeth  on  to  where  the  daylight  shines. 

Pure  from  their  heaven,  in  mountain  chalice  caught, 
It  drinks  the  rains,  as  drinks  the  soul  her  thought  ; 
And  down  dim  hollows  where  it  winds  along, 
Pours  its  life-burden  of  unlistened  song. 

I  catch  the  murmur  of  its  undertone, 
That  sigheth  ceaselessly.  Alone  !  alone  ! 
And  hear  afar  the  Rivers  gloriously 
Shout  on  their  paths  towards  the  shining  sea  ! 

The  voiceful  Rivers,  chanting  to  the  sun. 
And  wearing  names  of  honor,  every  one  : 
Outreaching  wide,  and  joining  hand  with  hand 
To  pour  great  gifts  along  the  asking  land. 

Ah  !  lonely  brook  !  creep  onward  through  the  pines  ; 
Press  through  the  gloom  to  where  the  dayhght  shines  ! 
Sing  on  among  the  stones,  and  secretly 
Feel  how  the'fioods  are  all  akin  to  tliee  ! 

Drink  the  sweet  rain  the  gentle  heaven  sendeth  ; 
Hold  thine  own  path,  however-ward  it  tendeth ; 
For  somewhere,  underneath  the  eternal  sky. 
Thou,  too,  shalt  find  the  Rivers,  by-and-by  ! 

Adeline  D.  T.  Whitney. 


96  THE    MOUNTAINS. 


A   FLOWER   FROxM    THE    CATSKILLS. 

'T^HE  orchards  that  climb  the  hillsides, 

That  lie  in  the  valley  below, 
Are  white  in  the  soft  May  sunshine, 

And  fragrant  with  May-day  snow. 
The  violets  wakened  by  April 

Their  watch  in  the  meadow  yet  keep, 
The  golden  spurs  of  the  columbine 

Are  hung  where  the  lichens  creep. 

Still  gleams  by  the  sluggish  waters 

Some  loitering  marigold, 
Where  ferns,  late  greeting  the  sunshine, 

Their  downy  green  plumes  unfold. 
And  just  by  the  wooded  waysides 

Faint  glows  the  azalea's  blush,  — 
The  dawn  of  the  coming  summer, 

The  morning's  awakening  flush  ! 

But  there  where  the  wind-rent  rain-clouds 

O'ershadow  the  Catskills'  crest, 
There  blossoms  one  flower  more  precious, 

Far  sweeter  than  all  the  rest. 
Where  scarcely  a  leaf  has  opened 

The  promise  of  summer  to  give, 
Where  the  lingering  winds  of  winter 

For  the  sleet  and  the  snow-drift  grieve, 

Where  the  trees  grow  scant  and  stunted. 
And  scarcely  a  shadow  is  cast, 

There  nestles  the  Trailing  Arbutus 
Close,  close  to  the  hills'  cold  breast. 


J' LOWER  FROM   T//E    CATSKIIJ.S.  97 

The  storm  winds  give  to  it  courage, 

The  skies  give  its  power  to  bless, 
And  it  giveth  to  all  its  loving 

In  its  happy  thankfulness. 

Now  pink  as  the  lip  of  the  sea-shell, 

Now  white  as  the  breakers'  foam, 
It  spreadeth  its  stainless  treasure 

To  brighten  its  rugged  home. 
Low  trailing  amid  the  mosses 

Its  delicate  blossoms  lie,  — 
Giving  the  earth  its  beauty, 

Its  worship  giving  the  sky. 

Though  bleak  be  the  home  that  reared  it, 

And  rough  be  its  lullaby. 
Gathering  strength  from  the  tempest, 

And  grace  from  the  fair  blue  sky ; 
It  waiteth  with  patient  longing 

In  the  snow's  embrace  held  fast, 
Still  trusting,  with  faith  unbroken. 

The  sun  to  welcome  at  last : 

To  welcome  with  loving  greeting 

The  soft  falling  step  of  Spring, 
Scarce  felt  on  the  northern  hill-slopes 

Where  the  lingering  snow-drifts  cling. 
And  faint  on  the  winds  upsweeping 

Is  wafted  its  perfume  rare. 
Like  the  incense  of  worship  ascending, — 

The  mountains'  low,  unspoken  prayer ! 

O  brave  little  blossom  !  still  teach  us 
Through  love  to  be  patient  and  strong. 


THE   MOUNTAIXS. 

Though  the  Spring  be  laggard  in  coming, 

And  the  days  be  dark  and  long ; 
Like  thy  bloom  by  the  rude  ways  scattered, 

Each  day  some  life  may  we  bless, 
Till  our  souls,  like  thy  fragrance  ascending, 

Reach  heavenly  perfectness. 

E.  w.  c. 


A   MOUNTAIN    CATARACT. 


T  TNPERISHING  youth  ! 
^^    Thou  leapest  from  forth 
The  cell  of  thy  hidden  nativity  ; 
Never  mortal  saw 
The  cradle  of  the  strong  one  ; 
Never  mortal  heard 
The  gathering  of  his  voices  ; 

The  deep-murmured  charm  of  the  son  of  the  rock, 
That  is  lisped  evermore  at  his  slumberless  fountain. 
There's  a  cloud  at  the  portal,  a  spray-woven  veil 
At  the  shrine  of  his  ceaseless  renewing  : 
It  embosoms  the  roses  of  dawn, 
It  entangles  the  shafts  of  the  noon, 
And  into  the  bed  of  its  stillness 
The  moonshine  sinks  down  as  in  slumber, 
That  the  son  of  the  rock,  that  the  nursling  of  heaven, 
May  be  born  in  a  holy  twilight. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 


rilE  RIVEirS  LAMEXT.  99 


THE    RIVER'S    LAMENT. 

T  CAME  down  rushing  from  the  mountain, 
-*-  Jubilant  with  pride  and  glee, 
Leaping  through  the  winds  and  shouting 
That  I  had  an  errand  to  the  sea. 

The  rocks  stood  against  me,  and  we  wrestled, 
But  I  burst  from  the  holding  of  their  hands, 

Broke  from  their  holding,  and  went  slipping 
And  sliding  into  lower  lands. 

I  carolled  as  I  went,  and  the  woodlands 

Smiled  as  my  sound  murmured  by; 
And  the  birds  on  the  wing  heard  me  singing. 

And  dropped  me  a  blessing  from  the  sky. 

The  flowers  on  the  bank  heard  me  singing, 
And  the  buds,  that  had  been  red  and  sweet, 

Grew  redder  and  sweeter  as  they  listened, 
And  their  golden  hearts  began  to  beat. 

The  cities  through  their  din  heard  me  passing, 
They  came  out  and  crowned  me  with  their  towers  ; 

And  the  trees  hung  up  their  garlands  above  me. 
And  coaxed  me  to  rest  among  their  bowers. 

But  I  laughed,  as  I  left  them  in  the  sunshine  ; 

There  was  never  aught  of  rest  for  me. 
Till  I  mingled  my  waters  with  the  ocean. 

Till  I  sang  in  the  chorus  of  the  sea. 


CO  THE   MOUNTAIXS. 

Ah  me  !  for  my  pride  upon  the  mountain, 

Ah  me  !   for  my  beauty  in  the  plains, 
When  my  crest  floated  glorious  in  the  sunshine, 

And  the  clouds  showered  strength  into  my  veins  ! 

Alas  !  for  the  blushing  little  blossoms. 

And  the  grasses,  with  their  long  golden  drifts, 

For  the  shadow  of  the  forest  in  the  noontide, 
And  full-handed  cities  with  their  gifts  ! 

I  have  mingled  my  waters  with  the  ocean, 
I  have  sung  in  the  chorus  of  the  sea  ; 

And  my  soul,  from  the  tumult  of  the  billows. 
Will  never  more  be  jubilant  and  free. 

I  sing,  but  the  echo  of  my  mourning 

Returns  to  me  shrieking  back  again, 
One  wild  weak  note  amongst  the  myriads 

That  are  sobbing  'neath  the  thunders  of  the  main. 

Oh  well,  for  the  dew-drops  on  the  gowan  ! 

Oh  well,  for  the  pool  upon  the  height, 
Where  the  birds  gather  thirsty  in  the  noontide. 

And  stars  watch  all  through  the  summer  night  1 

There  is  no  home-returning  for  the  waters 

To  the  mountain  whence  they  came,  glad  and  free  ; 

There  is  no  happy  ditty  for  the  river 
That  has  sung  in  the  chorus  of  the  sea. 

R.   M. 


THE   FIXE.  loi 


THE    PINE. 


A  LONE,  without  a  friend  or  foe, 
-^^-  Upon  the  rugged  chff  I  stanil, 
And  see  the  valley  far  below 

Its  social  world  of  trees  expand  ; 
A  hermit  pine  I  muse  above, 
And  dream  and  wait  for  her  I  love, 
For  her,  the  fanciful  and  tree, 
That  brings  my  purest  joy  to  me. 

Oft  dancing  from  the  laughing  sea 

When  morning  blazes  on  my  crest. 
All  wild  with  life  and  gayety 

She  springs  to  me  with  panting  breast. 
Her  sun-spun  ringlets  loosely  blown, 
And  eyes  that  seem  the  dawn  to  own. 
She  greets  me  with  impetuous  air. 
And  shakes  the  dew-drops  from  my  hair. 

At  midnight  as  I  stand  asleep, 

While  constellations  stream  above, 
I  hear  her  up  the  mountain  creep 

With  sighs  and  whispers  full  of  love  : 
There  in  my  arms  she  gently  lies. 
And  breathes  mysterious  melodies, 
And  with  her  childlike  winning  ways 
Among  my  leaves  and  branches  plays. 

Heaped  in  the  winter's  snowy  shroud, 
With  icy  fingers  to  each  limb. 

Or  drenched  by  summer's  thunder-cloud. 
Of  her,  and  her  alone,  I  dream  ; 


102  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

And  where  the  trees  are  bending  low, 
And  the  broad  lake  with  crisped  flow 
Darkens  its  face  despite  the  sun, 
I  watch  her  through  the  valley  run. 

Sometimes,  when  parched  in  summer  noon, 

She  brings  me  odors  from  the  east, 
And  draws  a  cloud  before  the  sun 
And  fans  me  into  peaceful  rest. 
In  my  siesta  while  I  drowse 
She  rustling  slips  amid  my  boughs, 
And  teases  me,  the  while  that  I 
In  dreamy  whispers  make  reply. 

Sometimes  as  if  in  fierce  despair. 
The  tears  of  passion  on  her  face. 

With  tempest  locks  and  angry  air 

She  round  me  flings  her  wild  embrace. 

And  sobs,  and  moans,  and  madly  storms, 

And  struggles  in  my  aching  arms 

Until,  the  wild  convulsion  past, 

She  falls  away  to  sleep  at  last. 

And  if  my  fate  at  length  ordain 
This  fallen  trunk  of  mine  to  bear 

Some  stately  vessel  o'er  the  main, 
I  know  she'll  not  forget  me  there. 

And  oft  the  sailor  'mid  the  gale 

Above  my  corse  shall  hear  her  wail 

And  sob  with  tears  of  agony. 

Far  out  on  the  Atlantic  sea. 


W.  W.  Story. 


TO    THE   RIVER  ARTE.  103 


LARCH    TREES. 

A  LL  men  speak  ill  of  thee,  unlucky  Tree  ! 

Spoilintj;  with  graceless  line  the  mountain  edge, 
Clotliing  with  awkward  sameness  rifted  ledge, 
Or  uplands  swelling  brokenly  and  free  : 
Yet  thou  shalt  win  some  few  good  words  of  me. 
Thy  boughs  it  is  that  teach  the  wind  to  mourn, 
Haunting  deep  inland  spots  and  groves  forlorn 
With  the  true  murmurs  of  the  plaintive  sea. 
When  tuft  and  shoot  on  vernal  woodlands  shine, 
Who  hath  a  green  unwinterlike  as  thine  ? 
And  when  thou  leanest  o'er  some  beetling  brow, 
With  pale  thin  twigs  the  eye  can  wander  through, 
There  is  no  other  tree  on  earth  but  thou 
Which  brings  the  sky  so  near,  or  makes  it  seem  so  blue. 

F.  W.   Faber. 


TO    THE    RIVER   ARVE. 

Supposed  to  be  written  at  a  Hamlet  near  the 
"Foot  of  Mont  Blanc. 

IVrOT  from  the  sands  or  cloven  rocks, 
-^^  Thou  rapid  Arve  !  thy  waters  flow  ; 
Nor  earth,  within  her  bosom,  locks 

Thy  dark  unfathomed  wells  below. 
Thy  springs  are  in  the  cloud,  thy  stream 

Begins  to  move  and  murmur  first 
Where  ice-peaks  feel  the  noonday  beam. 

Or  rain-storms  on  the  glacier  burst. 


104  THE   MOUXTAIXS. 

Born  where  the  thunder  and  the  blast 

And  morning's  earhest  light  are  born, 
Thou  rushest  swoln,  and  loud,  and  fast, 

By  these  low  homes  as  if  in  scorn  : 
Yet  humbler  springs  yield  purer  waves  : 

And  brighter,  glassier  s- reams  than  thine, 
Sent  up  from  earth's  unHghted  caves. 

With  heaven's  own  beam  and  image  shine. 

Yet  stay  ;  for  here  are  flowers  and  trees  ; 

Warm  rays  on  cottage-roofs  are  here  ; 
And  laugh  of  girls,  and  hum  of  bees,  — 

Here  linger  till  thy  waves  are  clear. 
Thou  heedest  not  —  thou  hastest  on  ; 

From  steep  to  steep  thy  torrent  falls. 
Till,  minghng  with  the  mighty  Rhone, 

It  rests  beneath  Geneva's  walls. 

Rush  on  —  but  were  there  one  with  me 

That  loved  me,  I  would  light  my  hearth 
Here,  where  with  God's  own  majesty 

Are  touched  the  features  of  the  earth. 
By  these  old  peaks,  white,  high,  and  vast, 

Still  rising  as  the  tempests  beat, 
Here  would  I  dwell  and  sleep,  at  last, 

Among  the  blossoms  at  their  feet. 

William  C.   Bryant. 

THE    ALPINE    FLOWERS. 

ly yf  EEK  dwellers  'mid  yon  terror-stricken  chffs  ! 
^^^  With  brows  so  pure,  and  incense-breathing  lips. 
Whence  are  ye  ?  Did  some  white-winged  messenger 
On  Mercy's  missions  trust  your  timid  germ 
To  the  cold  cradle  of  eternal  snows  ? 


COM  PENS  A  T/OiV.  i  o  5 

Or,  breathing  on  the  callous  icicles, 
Bid  them  with  tear  drops  nurse  ye  ?  — 

Tree  nor  shrub 
Dare  that  drear  atmosphere  ;  no  polar  pine 
Uprears  a  veteran  front  ;  yet  there  ye  stand, 
Leaning  your  cheeks  against  the  thick-ribbed  ice, 
And  looking  up  with  brilliant  eyes  to  Him 
Who  bids  you  bloom  unblanched  amid  the  waste 
Of  desolation.      Man,  who  panting  toils 
O'er  slippery  steeps,  or  trembling  treads  the  verge 
Of  yawning  gulfs  o'er  which  the  headlong  plunge 
Is  to  eternity,  looks  shuddering  up, 
And  marks  ye  in  your  placid  loveliness  — 
Fearless,  yet  frail  —  and,  clasping  his  chill  hands, 
Blesses  your  pencilled  beauty.    'Mid  the  pomp 
Of  mountain  summits  rushing  on  the  sky, 
And  chaining  the  rapt  soul  in  breathless  awe, 
He  bows  to  bind  you  drooping  to  his  breast. 
Inhales  your  spirit  from  the  frost-winged  gale, 
And  freer  dreams  of  heaven. 

Lydia  H.  Sigourney. 


COMPENSATION. 

'T^HE  torrent-wave,  that  breaks  with  force 
-■-     Impetuous  down  the  Alpine  height, 
Complains  and  struggles  in  its  course. 
But  sparkles,  as  the  diamond  bright. 

The  stream  in  shadowy  valley  deep 

May  slumber  in  its  narrow  bed  ; 
But  silent,  in  unbroken  sleep, 

Its  lustre  and  its  life  are  fled. 

Metastasio  (Mrs.  Hemans's  Translation). 


io6  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

LESSONS    FROM    THE    GORSE. 

"To  win  the  secret  of  a  weed's  plain  heart." 


Lowell. 


M' 


OUNTAIN  gorses,  ever  golden  ! 
Cankered  not  the  whole  year  long ! 
Do  you  teach  us  to  be  strong, 
Howsoever  pricked  and  holden 
Like  your  thorny  blooms,  and  so 
Trodden  on  by  rain  and  snow 
Up  the  hillside  of  this  life,  as  bleak  as  where  ye  grow  ? 

Mountain  blossoms,  shining  blossoms! 
Do  ye  teach  us  to  be  glad 
When  no  summer  can  be  had 
Blooming  in  our  inward  bosoms  ? 
K^,  whom  God  preserveth  still, 
Set  as  lights  upon  a  hill, 
Tokens  to  the  wintry  earth  that  Beauty  liveth  still! 

Mountain  gorses,  do  ye  teach  us 
From  that  academic  chair 
Canopied  with  azure  air, 
That  the  wisest  word  Man  reaches 
Is  the  humblest  he  can  speak? 
Ye,  who  live  on  mountain  peak, 
Yet  live  low  along  the  ground,  beside  the  grasses  meek ! 

Mountain  gorses  !  since  Linnaeus 
Knelt  beside  you  on  the  sod. 
For  your  beauty  thanking  God, — 
For  your  teaching,  ye  should  see  us 


TO   A    PINE-TREE.  107 

Bowing  in  prostration  new. 
Whence  arisen  —  if  one  or  two 
Drops  be  on  our  cheeks  —  O  World  !    they  are  not 
tears,  but  dew. 

E.     B.     r.KOWNlNCi. 


TO   A   PINE-TREE. 

■  j^AR  up  on  Katalidin  thou  towerest, 
-^        Purple-ljhie  with  the  distance  and  vast; 
Like  a  cloud  o'er  the  lowlands  thou  lowerest, 
That  hangs  poised  on  a  lull  in  the  blast, 
To  its  fall  leaning  awful. 

In  the  storm,  like  a  prophet  o'ermaddened, 
Thou  singest  and  tossest  thy  branches  ; 

Thy  heart  with  the  terror  is  gladdened. 
Thou  forebodest  the  dread  avalanches, 
When  whole  mountains  swoop  vale  ward. 

In  the  calm  thou  o'erstretchest  the  valleys 
With  thine  arms,  as  if  blessings  imploring, 

Like  an  old  king  led  forth  from  his  palace, 
When  his  people  to  battle  are  pouring 
From  the  city  beneath  him. 

To  the  slumberer  asleep  'neath  thy  glooming 
Thou  dost  sing  of  wild  billows  in  motion. 

Till  he  longs  to  be  swung  'mid  their  booming 
In  the  tents  of  the  Arabs  of  ocean, 
Whose  finned  isles  are  their  cattle. 


lo8  THE    MOUNTAINS. 

For  the  gale  snatches  thee  for  his  lyre, 
With  mad  hand  crashing  melody  frantic, 

While  he  pours  forth  his  mighty  desire 
To  leap  down  on  the  eager  Atlantic, 
Whose  arms  stretch  to  his  playmate. 

The  wild  storm  makes  his  lair  in  thy  branches, 
Preying  thence  on  the  continent  under  ; 

Like  a  lion,  crouched  close  on  his  haunches, 
There  awaiteth  his  leap  the  fierce  thunder, 
Growling  low  with  impatience. 

Spite  of  winter,  thou  keep'st  thy  green  glory, 
Lusty  father  of  Titans  past  number  ! 

The  snow-flakes  alone  make  thee  hoary. 
Nestling  close  to  thy  branches  in  slumber, 
And  thee  mantling  with  silence. 

Thou  alone  know'st  the  splendor  of  winter, 
'iMid  thy  snow-silvered,  hushed  precipices, 

Hearing  crags  of  green  ice  groan  and  splinter, 
And  then  plunge  down  the  muffled  abysses 
In  the  quiet  of  midnight. 

Thou  alone  know'st  the  glory  of  Summer, 
Gazing  down  on  thy  broid  seas  of  forest, 
On  thy  subjects  that  send  a  proud  murmur 
Up  to  thee,  to  their  sachem,  who  towerest 
From  thy  bleak  throne  to  heaven. 

J.   R.  Lowell, 


B' 


THE  LARK.  109 


THE    LARK. 

IRD  of  the  wilderness, 

Blithesome  and  cumberless, 
Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place, — 
Oh  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 

Wild  is  thy  lay,  and  loud, 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud  ; 
Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth  ! 

Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing, 

Where  art  thou  journeying  ? 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven —  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 

O'er  moor  and  mountain  green. 
O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day; 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim. 

Over  the  rainbow's  rim, 
Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away! 

Then  when  the  gloaming  comes. 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms. 
Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be  ! 

Emblem  of  happiness. 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place,  — 
Oh  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 

James   Hogg. 


THE   MOUNTAINS. 


MOUNTAIN    PICTURES. 

I. 

Fraxcoxia  from  the  Pemigewasset, 

ONCE  more,  O  Mountains  of  the  North,  unveil 
Your  brows,  and  lay  your  cloudy  mantles  by ! 

And  once  more,  ere  the  eyes  that  setk  ye  fail, 
Uplift  against  the  blue  walls  of  the  sky 

Your  mighty  shapes,  and  let  the  sunshine  weave 
Its  golden  net- work  in  your  belting  woods, 
Smile  down  in  rainbows  from  your  falling  floods, 

And  on  your  kingly  brows  at  morn  and  eve 
Set  crowns  of  fire  !     So  shall  my  soul  receive 

Haply  the  secret  of  your  calm  and  strength, 
Your  unforgotten  beauty  interfuse 
My  common  life,  your  glorious  shapes  and  hues 
And  sun-dropped  splendors  at  my  bidding  come, 
Loom  vast  through  dreams,  and  stretch  in  billowy 
length 

From  the  sea-level  of  my  lowland  home  ! 

They  rise  before  me  !     Last  night's  thunder-gust 
Roared  not  in  vain  :  for  where  its  lightnings  thrust 
Their  tongues  of  fire,  the  great  peaks  seem  so  near. 
Burned  clean  of  mist,  so  starkly  bold  and  clear, 
I  almost  pause  the  wind  in  the  pines  to  hear, 
The  loose  rock's  fall,  the  steps  of  browsing  deer. 
The  clouds  that  shattered  on  your  slide- worn  walls 
And  spHntered  on  the  rocks  their  spears  of  rain 
Have  set  in  play  a  thousand  waterfalls. 
Making  the  dusk  and  silence  of  the  woods 
Glad  with  the  laus^hter  of  the  chasing  floods, 


MONAD XOCK  FROM  IVACirUSET.  i  i 

And  luminous  with  blown  spray  and  silver  ;^leams, 

While,  in  the  vales  below,  the  dry-lipped  streams 
Sin":  to  the  freshened  meadow-lands  aijain. 

So,  let  me  hope,  the  battle- storm  that  beats 
The  land  with  hail  and  fire  may  pass  away 
With  its  spent  thunders  at  the  break  of  day, 

Like  last  night's  clouds,  and  leave,  as  it  retreats, 
A  greener  earth  and  fairer  sky  behind, 
Blown  crystal  clear  by  Freedom's  northern  wind  ! 

II. 

MOXADNOCK    FROM    WACIirSKT. 

I  WOULD  I  were  a  painter,  for  the  sake 
Of  a  sweet  picture,  and  of  her  who  led, 
A  fitting  guide,  with  reverenti  il  tread, 
Into  that  mountain  mystery.     First  a  lake 
Tinted  with  sunset ;  next  the  wavy  lines 

Of  far-receding  hills  ;  and  yet  more  far, 
Monadnock  lifting  from  his  night  of  pines 
His  rosy  forehead  to  the  evening  star. 
Beside  us,  purple-zoned,  Wachuset  laid 
His  head  against  the  West,  whose  warm  light  made 

His  aureole  ;   and  o'er  him,  sharp  and  clear, 
Like  a  shaft  of  lightning  in  mid-launching  stayed, 
A  single  level  cloud-line,  shone  upon 
By  the  fierce  glances  of  the  sunken  sun, 

Menaced  the  darkness  with  its  golden  spear  ! 

So  twilight  deepened  round  us.     Still  and  black 
The  great  woods  climbed  the  mountain  at  our  back  ; 
And  on  their  skirts,  where  yet  the  lingering  day 
On  the  shorn  greenness  of  the  clearing  lay, 


112  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

The  brown  old  farm-house  Hke  a  bircrs-nest  hung. 
With  home-life  sounds  the  desert  air  was  stirred  : 
The  bleat  of  sheep  along  the  hill  we  heard, 
The  bucket  plashing  in  the  cool,  sweet  well. 
The  pasture-bars  that  clattered  as  they  fell  ; 
Dogs  barked,  fowls  fluttered,  cattle  lowed  ;  the  gate 
Of  the  barn-yard  creaked  beneath  the  merry  Aveight 

Of  sun-brown  children,  listening,  while  they  swung, 
The  welcome  sound  of  supper-call  to  hear  ; 
And  down  the  shadowy  lane,  in  tinkhngs  clear, 

The  pastoral  curfew^  of  the  cow-bell  rung. 
Thus  soothed  and  pleased.,  our  backward  path  we  took, 

Praising  the  farmer's  home.     He  only  spake. 

Looking  into  the  sunset  o'er  the  lake, 

Like  one  to  whom  the  far-off  is  most  near  ; 
"  Yes,  most  folks  think  it  has  a  pleasant  look : 

I  love  it  for  my  good  old  mother's  sake, 

Who  lived  and  died  here  in  the  peace  of  God  !  " 

The  lesson  of  his  words  we  pondered  o'er, 
As  silently  we  turned  the  eastern  flank 
Of  the  mountain,  where  its  shadow  deepest  sank, 
Doubling  the  night  along  our  rugged  road  : 
We  felt  that  man  was  more  than  his  abode, — 

The  inward  life  than  Nature's  raiment  more  ; 
And  the  warm  sky,  the  sun-down  tinted  hill, 

The  forest  and  the  lake,  seemed  dwarfed  and  dim 
Before  the  saintly  soul  whose  human  will 

Meekly  in  the  Eternal  foot-steps  trod. 
Making  her  homely  toil  and  household  ways 
An  earthly  echo  of  the  song  of  praise 

Swelling  from  angel  lips  and  harps  of  seraphim. 

J.  G.  Whittier. 


SA  AT  T  MA  R  GEN.  1 1 3 


ABOVE. 

O  ACRED  to  Cyl^ele,  tlie  wliisperinj^  pine 

^     Loves  the  wild  grottos   where    the    white    cliffs 

shine. 
Here  towers  the  cypress,  preacher  to  the  wise  ; 
Lessening  from  earth  her  spiral  honours  rise, 
Till,  as  a  spear-point  reared,  the  topmost  spray 
Points  to  the  Eden  of  eternal  day. 

Camoens  (Mickle's  Transbtion). 


SANCT    MARGEN. 

/^OME  with  me  to  the  mountain,  not  where  rocks 
^■^     Soar  harsh  above  the  troops  of  hurrying  pines, 
But  where  the  earth  spreads  soft  and  rounded  breasts 
To  feed  her  children  ;  where  the  generous  hills 
Lift  a  green  isle  betwixt  the  sky  and  plain 
To  keep  some  Old  World  things  aloof  from  change. 
Here  too  'tis  hill  and  hollow  :  new-born  streams 
With  sweet  enforcement,  joyously  compelled 
Xike  laughing  children,  hurry  down  the  steeps. 
And  make  a  dimpled  chase  athwart  the  stones  ; 
Pine-woods  are  black  upon  the  heights,  the  slopes 
Are  green  with  pasture,  and  the  bearded  corn 
Fringes  the  blue  above  the  sudden  ridge  : 
A  little  world  whose  round  horizon  cuts 
This  isle  of  hills  with  heaven  for  a  sea, 
Save  in  clear  moments  when  south-westward  gleams 
France  by  the  Rhine,  melting  anon  to  haze. 
The  monks  of  old  chose  here  their  still  retreat, 
8 


114  THE  MOUXTAINS. 

And  called  it  by  the  Blessed  Virgin's  name, 
Sancta  Maria  ;  which  the  peasant's  tongue, 
Speaking  from  out  the  parent's  heart  that  turns 
All  loved  things  into  little  things,  has  made 
Sanct  Margen,  —  Holy  little  Mary,  dear 
As  all  the  sweet  home  things  she  smiles  upon. 

The  monks  are  gone   their  shadows  fall  no  more 

Tall-frocked  and  cowled  athwart  the  evening  fields 

At  milking-time  ;  their  silent  corridors 

Are  turned  to  homes  of  bare-armed,  aproned  men, 

Who  toil  for  wife  and  children.     But  the  bells, 

Pealing  on  high  from  two  quaint  convent  towers, 

Still  ring  the  Catholic  signals,  summoning 

To  grave  remembrance  of  the  larger  life 

That  bears  our  own,  like  perishable  fruit 

Upon  its  heaven-wide  branches.     At  their  sound 

The  shepherd-boy  far  off  upon  the  hill, 

The  workers  with  the  saw  and  at  the  forge, 

The  triple  generation  round  the  hearth,  — 

Grandames  and  mothers  and  the  flute-voiced  girls.  - 

Fall  on  their  knees,  and  send  forth  prayerful  cries 

To  the  kind  Mother  with  the  little  Boy, 

Who  pleads  for  helpless  men  against  the  storm, 

Lightning  and  plagues  and  all  terrific  shapes 

Of  power  supreme. 

And  on  the  farthest  height 
A  little  tower  looks  out  above  the  pines, 
Where  mounting  you  will  find  a  sanctuary 
Open  and  still  ;  without,  the  silent  crowd 
Of  heaven-planted,  incense  mingling  flowers  ; 


SA  NC  T  MA  R  GEX.  1 1 5 

Within,  the  altar  where  the  Mother  sits 

'Mid  votive  tablets  hung  from  far-off  years 

By  peasants  succored  in  the  peril  of  fire, 

Fever,  or  flood,  who  thought  that  Mary's  love, 

Willing  but  not  omnipotent,  had  stood 

Between  their  lives  and  that  dread  power  wliich  slew 

Their  neighbor  at  their  side.     The  chapel  bell 

Will  melt  to  gentlest  music  ere  it  reach 

That  cottage  on  the  slope,  whose  garden-gate 

Has  caught  the  rose-tree  boughs,  and  stands  ajar; 

So  does  the  door,  to  let  the  sunbeams  in  ; 

For  on  the  slanting  sunbeams  angels  come 

And  visit  Agatha  who  dwells  within,. — 

Old  Agatha,  whose  cousins  Kate  and  Nell 

Are  housed  by  her  in  Love  and  Duty's  name, 

They  being  feeble,  with  small  withered  wits, 

And  she  believing  that  the  higher  gift 

Was  given  to  be  shared. 

She  kept  the  company  of  kings  and  queens 

And  mitred  saints  who  sat  below  the  feet 

Of  Francis  with  the  ragged  frock  and  wounds ; 

And  Rank  for  her  meant  Duty,  various, 

Yet  equal  in  its  worth,  done  worthily. 

Command  was  service  ;  humblest  service  done 

By  willing  and  discerning  souls  was  glory. 

Geokge  Eliot. 


Ii6  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

A   GERMAN   "BAD." 

TPvEEP  within  a  narrow  valley  lies  a  busy  little  town, 
•^-"^     While  set  as  for  its  coronet  each  mountain  bears 
a  chapel  crown. 

Every  tongue  on  earth  that's  spoken  in   that    Babel 

mingled  go. 
Those  whose  characters  are  broken,  those  whose  lives 

are  white  as  snow. 

Some  for  pleasure,  some  for  play,  ever  marching  to 

and  fro,  — 
Sick  and  well  and  grave  and  ga}-,  —  up  and  down  the 

crowd  doth  flow. 

Through  the  valley  runs  a  river,  bright  and  rocky,  cool 

and  swift. 
Where  the  wave  with  many  a  quiver  plays  around  the 

pine-tree's  drift. 

But  within  the  town  the  streamlet  forms  a  clear  and 

shallow  pool, 
Each  detail  reflected  clearly  down  amidst  its  shadows 

cool : 

All  the  men,  and  all  the  houses,  —  all  the  hanging 
flower-pots, 

Booths  and  bonnets,  beards  and  blouses,  and  the  Bar- 
oness de  Kotz  ; 

And  the  gray  cliffs  overhanging,  and  the  grim  and 

solemn  pines. 
Whose  forests  with  their  mighty  shadows   close  us  in 

with  dark  green  lines  : 


A   GERMAX  ''Bad:'  117 

All,  —  except  the  cross  which  towers    high  aloft  into 

the  sky, 
Alone  upon  that  mountain  summit,  as  its  Master  here 

did  die. 

For  the   mirror  was   too   narrow,   and  could   not  the 

whole  contain, 
So  it  took  the  lower  portion,  left  out  what  o"er  all 

should  reign. 

And  methought  our  living  mirrors,  in  that  busy  little 

town. 
Gave  back  all  that  eager  bustle,  to  and  fro,  and  up  and 

down. 

Faithfully  we  there   reflected  all  the   chatter,  all   the 

noise. 
All  the  talk  of  one  another,  —  all  the  flowers,  all  the 

toys. 

Only  we  left  out  the  presence,  and  forgot  the  thought 

of  Him 
Whose  calm  and  holy  memory  in  our  hearts  should 

ne'er  grow  dim. 

Like    an    old    Italian    picture,  —  where   the    men   and 

women  sit, 
Unconscious  of  the  glorious  vision,  which  above  their 

heads  doth  flit,  — 

So  the  upper,  better  portion  of  our  picture  heeding 

not, 
Broken,  selfish,  narrow,  trivial  —  life  becomes  in  that 

sweet  spot. 

"  Good  Words.'' 


Ii8  THE  MOUNTAINS. 


CONSECRATED. 

A  MONG  the  far  gray  mountains 
-^^     There  lies  a  lonely  grave  ; 
In  rain  and  sunshine  ever 

Unkept  the  grasses  wave. 

'Twas  there  the  shepherds  buried 

The  little  shepherd  lad, 
With  rude  hands  fond  and  tender, 

With  voices  hush'd  and  sad. 

No  sound  was  heard  of  organ, 

No  note  of  funeral  psalm, 
But  only  sobs  of  brother  hearts 

To  bless  the  mountain  calm. 

No  priestly  voice  has  hallowed 

The  shepherd's  place  of  rest  ; 
No  priestly  hands  have  blessed  it. 

And  yet  ^- it  has  been  blessed. 

For  there  the  little  shepherd's  flock 

Bleats  thankfully  to  God  ; 
A4id  grateful  songs  the  sweet  birds  sing 

Above  the  grassy  sod. 

"  The  Month. 


THE   GREAT  ST.  BERNARD.  119 


THE    GREAT    ST.    BERNARD. 

■^JIGMT  was  again  descending,  when  mv  mule. 

-^^    That  all  day  long  had  climbed  among  the  clouds 

Higher  and  higher  still,  as  by  a  stair 

Let  down  from  Heaven  itself,  transporting  me, 

Stopped  to  the  joy  of  both,  at  that  low  door  ; 

That  door  which  ever,  as  self-opened,  moves 

To  them  that  knock,  and  nightly  sends  abroad 

Ministering  Spirits.     Lying  on  the  watch, 

Two  dogs  of  grave  demeanor  welcomed  me, 

All  meekness,  gentleness,  tho'  large  of  limb  ; 

And  a  lay-brother  of  the  Hospital, 

Who,  as  we  toiled  below,  had  heard  by  fits 

The  distant  echoes  gaining  on  his  ear. 

Came  and  held  fast  my  stirrup  in  his  hand, 

While  I  alighted.     Long  could  I  have  stood 

With  a  religious  awe  contemplating 

That  House,  the  highest  in  the  Ancient  World, 

And  destined  to  perform  from  age  to  age 

The  noblest  service,  welcoming  as  guests 

All  of  all  nations  and  of  every  faith  ; 

A  Temple,  sacred  to  Humanity  ! 

On  the  same  rock  beside  it  stood  the  church. 
Reft  of  its  cross,  not  of  its  sanctity; 
The  vesper-bell,  for  'twas  the  vesper-hour. 
Duly  proclaiming  through  the  wilderness  : 
"  All  ye  who  hear,  whatever  be  your  work. 
Stop  for  an  instant  —  move  your  lips  in  prayer  !  " 
And,  just  beneath  it,  in  that  dreary  dale, 


I20  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

If  dale  it  might  be  called,  so  near  to  Heaven, 

A  little  lake,  where  never  fish  leaped  up, 

Lay  like  a  spot  of  ink  amid  the  snow  ; 

A  star,  the  only  one  in  that  small  sky, 

On  its  dead  surface  glimmering.     'Twas  a  place 

Resembling  nothing  I  had  left  behind. 

As  if  all  worldly  ties  were  now  dissolved  ;  — 

And,  to  incline  the  mind  still  more  to  thought, 

To  thought  and  sadness,  on  the  eastern  shore 

Under  a  beetling  cliff  stood  half  in  gloom 

A  lonely  chapel  destined  for  the  dead, 

For  such  as,  having  wandered  from  their  way, 

Had  perished  miserably.     Side  by  side 

Within  they  lie,  a  mournful  company, 

All  in  their  shrouds,  no  earth  to  cover  them  ; 

Their  features  full  of  hfe  yet  motionless 

In  the  broad  day,  nor  soon  to  suffer  change, 

Tho'  the  barred  windows,  barred  against  the  wolf, 

Are  always  open ! 

Samuel  Rogers. 

THE   ALPINE    MAIDEN. 

T~\OWN  the  steep  path  we  wound  with  careful  tread, 
-*-^  Stones  slipping,  rolling,  bounding  far  below. 
And  where  a  vista  opened  wide  ahead 
We  paused  in  sunset  glow. 

Before  us,  the  white  Jungfrau,  far  away, 
Towered  up  into  the  blue  and  silent  sky  ; 
All  rosy  with  the  light  of  dying  day, 
The  Silberhorn  flamed  high. 


THE  ALPINE  MAIDEN.  121 

Down  swept  the  glacier's  rough  and  tortuous  hnes, 
Till  lost  to  sight  below ;  while  silvery  clear 
The  laughter  of  lost  streams  and  stir  of  pines 
Made  music  far  and  near. 

Sudden  the  path  curved  round  a  wall  of  stone 
With  Alpine  roses  corniced,  fair  and  sweet, 
And  there  within  its  hollow,  all  alone, 
She  stood  with  sun-browned  feet,  — 

An  Alpine  maiden,  with  her  simple  store 
Of  berries,  waiting  on  the  rocky  shelf 
For  travellers  who  should  pass  her  open  door, 
And  singing  to  herself 

Some  quaint  old  Switzer  song  born  of  the  sound 
Of  mountain  brooks  from  cloud-lost  summits  leaping, 
And  mournful-cadenced  as  the  wind  that  round 
Their  sturm-worn  peaks  comes  sweeping. 

Then,  as  we  paused  to  taste  the  dainty  food, 

"  Where   is   your  school .'' "    we    asked    the    mountain 

queen, 
Wondering  at  foreign  words  she  understood, 
And  at  her  gracious  mien. 

She  raised  her  brown  eyes  to  the  mountains  grand, 
Beyond  the  pine-tops  and  the  valley  near, 
And  with  a  graceful  gesture  of  her  hand, 
She  answered  simply,  ''  Here." 

Oh  short,  wise  answer,  striking  deep  to  truth 
The  shallow  question  did  not  dream  to  reach. 
Such  wisdom  as,  in  everlasting  youth, 
The  schools  can  never  teach  ! 


12  2  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

A]l  came  to  her,  who  never  strayed  to  seek ; 
Her  teachers  came  of  every  land  and  race, 
And  taught  her  all  their  foreign  tongues  to  speak. 
But  learned  from  out  her  face 

The  strength  of  all  the  hills,  their  patience  high, 
The  beauty  and  the  grace  about  their  feet, 
That  left  clear  impress  on  the  brow  and  eye. 
And  made  the  soul  complete  ; 

And  bore  with  them  afar  upon  the  sea, 

To  distant  lands,  where'er  their  footsteps  strayed, 

—  Perpetual  blessing  in  their  memory  — 

That  simple  mountain  maid. 

Anna  C.  Brackett. 


THE    UNDER-WORLD. 

TORASSE  was  in  his  three-and-twentieth  year; 
^    Graceful  and  active  as  a  stag  just  roused; 
Gentle  withal,  and  pleasant  in  his  speech, 
Yet  seldom  seen  to  smile.     He  had  grown  up 
Among  the  Hunters  of  the  Higher  Alps  ; 
Had  caught  their  starts  and  fits  of  thoughtfulness. 
Their  haggard  looks,  and  strange  soliloquies, 
Arising  (so  say  they  that  dwell  below) 
From  frequent  dealings  with  the  Mountain  Spirits. 

Once,  nor  long  before. 
Alone  at  day-break  on  the  Mettenberg, 
He  slipped,  he  fell ;  and,  thro'  a  fearful  cleft 
GHding  from  ledge  to  ledge,  from  deep  to  deeper. 
Went  to  the  Under-world  !     Long-while  he  lay 
Upon  his  rugged  bed  —  then  waked  like  one 


THE   UNDER-WORLD.  123 

Wishins:  to  sleep  again  and  sleep  for  ever  ! 
For,  looking  round,  he  saw  or  thought  he  saw 
Innumerable  branches  of  a  Cave 
Winding  beneath  that  solid  Crust  of  Ice  : 
With  here  and  there  a  rent  that  showed  the  stars  ! 
What  then,  alas,  was  left  him  but  to  die  ? 
What  else  in  those  immeasurable  chambers, 
Strewn  with  the  bones  of  miserable  men 
Lost  like  himself?     Yet  must  he  wander  on, 
Till  cold  and  hunger  set  his  spirit  free  ! 
And,  rising,  he  began  his  dreary  round  ; 
When  hark  !  the  noise  as  of  some  mighty  Flood 
Working  its  way  to  light !     Back  he  withdrew, 
But  soon  returned,  and  fearless  from  despair 
Dashed  down  the  dismal  Channel  ;  and  all  day, 
If  day  could  be  where  utter  darkness  was. 
Travelled  incessantly,  the  craggy  roof 
Just  overhead,  and  the  impetuous  waves. 
Nor  broad  nor  deep,  yet  with  a  giant's  strength 
Lashing  him  on.     At  last  as  in  a  pool 
The  water  slept ;  a  pool  sullen,  profound. 
Where,  if  a  billow  chanced  to  heave  and  swell, 
It  broke  not;  and  the  roof,  descending,  lay 
Flat  on  the  surface.     Statue-like  he  stood. 
His  journey  ended  ;  when  a  ray  divine 
Shot  thro'  his  soul.     Breathing  a  prayer  to  Her 
Whose  ears  are  never  shut,  the  Blessed  \'irgin. 
He  plunged,  he  swam,  —  and  in  an  instant  rose. 
The  barrier  passed,  in  sunshine  !     Thro'  a  vale, 
Such  as  in  Arcady,  where  many  a  thatch 
Gleamed  thro'  the  trees,  half-seen  and  half-embow- 
ered, 


124  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

Glittering  the  river  ran  ;  and  on  the  bank 
The  young  were  dancing  ('twas  a  festival-day) 
All  in  their  best  attire.     There  first  he  saw 
His  Madelaine.     In  the  crowd  she  stood  to  hear, 
When  all  drew  round,  inquiring ;  and  her  face. 
Seen  behind  all,  and  varying,  as  he  spoke. 
With  hope,  and  fear,  and  generous  sympathy, 
Subdued  him.     From  that  very  hour  he  loved. 

Samuel  Rogers. 

THE    HOME    OF    "IL   CURATO." 

"DUT  what  need  have  I  of  pictures  on  my  walls  ? 
-"■^  Out  of  my  window  every  day  I  see 

Pictures  that  God  has  painted,  better  far 
Than  Raffaelle  or  Razzi  —  these  great  slopes 
Crowned  with  golden  grain  and  waving  vines 
And  rows  of  olives  ;  and  then  far  away 
Dim  purple  mountains  where  cloud-shadows  drift 
Darkening  across  them  ;  and,  beyond,  the  sky, 
Where  morning  dawns  and  twilight  lingering  dies. 
And  then,  again,  above  my  humble  roof 
The  vast  night  is  as  deep  with  all  its  stars 
As  o'er  the  proudest  palace  of  the  king. 

W.  W.  Story. 

THE    CENTAUR'S    CAVE. 

'T^HEN,  from  the  shore,  the  rocks  and  windy  sum- 

■*-       mits  high 
Of  wood-topt  Pelion  rear'd  their  bencon  midst  the  sky. 
We  entered  straight  a  grot  of  gloomy  twilight  shade  ; 


THE   CEXTAUR'S  CAl'E.  125 

There  on  a  lowly  couch  the  Centiur  hui^^e  was  laid. 
At  lenu;th  unmeasured  stretched,  his  rapid  legs  were 

thrown  ; 
And,  shod  with  horny  hoofs,  reclin'd  upon  the  stone. 
But  when  the  Centaur  saw  the  noble  kings  appear, 
He  rose  with  courteous  act,  and  kiss'd  and  brought 

them  dainty  cheer. 
The  wine  in  beakers  served,  the  branchy  couches  spread 
With  scattered  leaves,  and  placed  each  guest  upon  his 

bed. 
In  dishes  rude  the  flesh  of  boars  and  stags  bestowed ; 
While   draughts  of  luscious  wine  in    equal    measure 

flow'd. 
But  now,  when  food  and  drink  had  satisfied  the  heart, 
With  loud,  applauding  hands,  they  urged  my  minstrel's 

art  : 
That  I,  in  contest  match'd  against  the  Centaur  sire. 
Should,  to  some  wide-famed  strain,  attune  the  rinmne 

lyre. 
Through  winding  cavities  that  scoop'd  the  rocky  cell, 
With  tone  sonorous,  thrill'd  my  sweetly  vocal  shell. 
High    Pelion's    mountain-heads     and    woody    valleys 

round. 
And  all  his  lofty  oaks  remurmur'd  to  the  sound. 
His  oaks  uprooted  rush,  and  all  tumultuous  wave 
Around  the  darkened  mouth  of  Chiron's  hollow  cave. 
The  rocks  re-echo  shrill ;  the  beasts  of  forest  wild 
Stand  at  the  cavern's  mouth,   in  listening  trance  be- 

guiPd : 
The  birds  surround  the  den ;  and,  as  in  weary  rest, 
They  drop  their  fluttering  wings,  forgetful  of  the  nest. 
Amazed  the  Centaur  saw  :   his  clapping  hands  he  beat 


126  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

And  stamp'd  in  ecstasy  the  rock  with  hoof'd  and  horny 
feet; 

When  Typhys  threads  the  cave,  and  bids  the  Minyan 
train 

To  hurry  swift  on  board;  and  thus  I  ceased  my  strain. 

The  Argonauts  leap'd  up  in  haste,  and  snatch'd  their 
arms  again  ; 

Forth  from  the  den  we  sprang,  down  from  the  moun- 
tain high  : 

The  aged  Centaur  spread  his  raised  hands  towards  the 
sky, 

And  call'd  on  all  the  gods  a  safe  return  to  give, 

That,  famed  in  ages  yet  unborn,  the  youthful  kings 
might  live. 

Descending  to  the  shore,  we  climb'd  the  bark  again  ; 

Each  press'd  his  former  "bench  and  lash'd  with  oar  the 
main  ; 

Huge  Pelion's  mountain  swift  receded  from  our  view, 

And  o'er  vast  ocean's  green  expanse  the  foam  white- 
chafing  flew. 

Onomacritus  (Sir  C.  Elton's  Translation). 

CORONACH. 

T  TE  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 
-*-  ^   He  is  lost  to  the  forest. 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font,  reappearing. 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  ! 


A    VIS /ON'  OF  HELICON.  127 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory ; 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber  ! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 


Thou  art  gone,  and  for  ever  ! 


Sir  Walter  Scott. 


A   VISION    OF    HELICON. 

THROUGH  the  black,  rushing  smoke-bursts 
Thick  breaks  the  red  flame  ; 
All  Etna  heaves  fiercely 
Her  forest-clothed  frame. 

Not  here,  O  Apollo  ! 
Are  haunts  meet  for  thee. 
But,  where  Helicon  breaks  down 
In  cliff  to  the  sea. 

Where  the  moon-silver'd  inlets 
Send  up  their  light  voice 
Up  the  still  vale  of  Thisbe, 
Oh  speed,  and  rejoice ! 


123  THE    MOUNTAINS. 

On  the  sward  at  the  cliff-top 
Lie  strewn  the  white  flocks  ; 
On  the  cliff-side  the  pigeons 
Roost  deep  in  the  rocks. 

In  the  moonlight  the  shepherds, 
Soft  lull'd  by  the  rills, 
Lie  wrapt  in  their  blankets. 
Asleep  on  the  hills. 

—  What  forms  are  tliese  coming 
So  white  through  the  gloom  ? 
What  garments  out-glistening 
The  gold-flower'd  broom  ? 

What  sweet-breathing  presence 
Out-perfumes  the  thyme  ? 
What  voices  enrapture 
The  night's  balmy  prime  ?  — 

'Tis  Apollo  comes  leading 
His  choir,  the  Nine. 

—  The  leader  is  fairest, 
But  all  are  divine. 

They  are  lost  in  the  hollows  ! 
They  stream  up  again  ! 
What  seeks  on  this  mountain 
The  glorified  train  ?  — 

They  bathe  on  this  mountain. 
In  the  spring  by  their  road ; 
Then  on  to  Olympus, 
Their  endless  abode ! 

Matthew  Arnold. 


rilK  FAIRIES.  129 

THE       FAIRIES. 
A  Child's  Song. 

T  TP    tlie  airy  mountain, 
^^       Down  the  rushy  i^Ien, 
We  daren't  go  a-huntin<^ 

For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together  ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap. 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home. 
They  live  on  crispy  pan-cakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam  ; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain  lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hilJ-top 

The  old  King  sits  ; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slievelt-ague  to  Rosses  ; 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights. 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gav  Northern  Lights. 
9 


130  THE   MOUXTAINS. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long  ; 
When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow. 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep. 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lakes 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wakes. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side. 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  one  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  find  the  thornies  set 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of.  little  men  ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk. 

Trooping  all  together  ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap. 

And  white  owFs  feather  ! 

William   Allingham. 


CATIIAIR  FH ARGUS.  13 1 

CATHAIR    FH  ARGUS. 
{Fergus's  Seat.) 

(A  mountain  in  the  Island  of  Arran,  the  summit  of  which  resembles  a 
gigantic  human  profile.) 

TT  7ITH  face  turned  upward  to  the  changeful  sky, 

'  '^        I,  Fergus,  lie,  —  supine  in  frozen  rest ; 
The  maiden  morning  clouds  slip  rosily 

Unclasped,  unclasping,  down  my  granite  breast ; 
The  lightning  strikes  my  brow  and  passes  by. 

There's  nothing  new  beneath  the  sun,  I  wot : 
I,  "  Fergus  "  called,  —  the  great  pre-Adamite, 

Who  for  my  mortal  body  blindly  sought 
Rash  immortality,  and  on  this  height 

Stone-bound,  for  ever  am  and  yet  am  not,  — 

There's  nothing  new  beneath  the  sun,  I  say. 

Ye  pygmies  of  a  later  race,  who  come 
And  play  out  your  brief  generation's  play 

Below  me,  know,  I  too  spent  my  life's  sum. 
And  revelled  through  my  short  tumultuous  day. 

Oh.  wliat  is  man  that  he  should  mouth  so  grand 
Through  his  poor  thousand  as  his  seventy  years  .? 

Whether  as  king  I  ruled  a  trembling  land. 

Or  swayed  by  tongue  or  pen  my  meaner  peers, 

Or  earth's  whole  learning  once  did  understand,  — 


132  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

What  matter?     The  star-angels  know  it  all. 

They  who  came  sweeping  through  the  silent  night 
And  stood  before  me,  yet  did  not  appal : 

Till,  fighting  'gainst  me  in  their  courses  bright,* 
Celestial  smote  terrestrial.  —  Hence,  my  fall. 

Hence  Heaven  cursed  me  with  a  granted  prayer ; 

Made  my  hill-seat  eternal  :  bade  me  keep 
My  pageant  of  majestic  lone  despair, 

While  one  by  one  into  the  infinite  deep 
Sank  kindred,  realm,  throne,  world :  yet  I  lay  there. 

There  still  I  lie.     Where  are  my  glories  fled  ? 

My  wisdom  that  I  boasted  as  divine  ? 
My  grand  primeval  women  fair,  who  shed 

Their  whole  life's  joy  to  crown  one  hour  of  mine, 
And  hved  to  curse  the  love  they  coveted  ? 

Gone  —  gone      Uncounted  eeons  have  rolled  by, 
And  still  my  ghost  sits  by  its  corpse  of  stone, 

And  still  the  blue  smile  of  the  new-formed  sky 

Finds  me  unchanged.     Slow  centuries  crawling  on 

Bring  myriads  happy  death  :  — I  cannot  die. 

My  stone-shape  mocks  the  dead  man's  peaceful  face, 
And  straighten-ed  arm  that  will  not  labor  more  ; 

And  yet  I  yearn  for  a  mean  six-foot  space 
To  moulder  in,  with  daisies  growing  o'er, 

Rather  than  this  unearthly  resting-place  ;  — 

Where  pinnacled,  my  silent  efiigy 

Against  the  sunset  rising  clear  and  cold 

Startles  the  musing  stranger  saihng  by, 

And  calls  up  thoughts  that  never  can  be  told. 

Of  life,  and  death,  and  immortality. 

*  "  The  stars  in  their  courses  fought  against  Sisera." 


CATIIAIR   Fir  ARC  US.  133 

While  I  ? —  I  watch  this  after-world  that  creeps 

Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  feet  of  God  : 
Ay,  though  it  labors,  struggles,  sins,  and  weeps, 

Yet,  love-drawn,  follows  ever  Him  who  trod 
Through  dim  Gethsemane  to  Calvary's  steeps. 

O  glorious  shame  !     O  royal  servitude  ! 

High  lowliness,  and  ignorance  all-wise  ! 
Pure  life  with  death,  and  death  with  life  imbued;  — 

My  centuried  splendors  crumble  'neath  Thine  eyes, 
Thou  Holy  One  who  died  upon  the  Rood  ! 

Therefore,  face  upward  to  the  Christian  heaven, 
I,  Fergus,  lie.  —  expectant,  humble,  calm; 

Dumb  emblem  of  the  faith  to  me  not  given  ; 

The  clouds  drop  chrism,  the  stars  their  midnight 
psalm 

Chant  over  one,  who  passed  away  unshriven. 

"  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life." 

So  from  yon  mountain  graveyard  cries  the  dust 

Of  child  to  parent,  husband  unto  wife. 
Consoling,  and  believing  in  the  Just : — 

Christ  lives,  though  all  the  universe  died  in  strife. 

Therefore  my  granite  lips  for  ever  pray: 

"  O  rains,  wash  out  my  sin  of  self  abhorred  ! 

O  sun,  melt  thou  my  heart  of  stone  away  I 

Out  of  Thy  plenteous  mercy  save  me,  Lord  !  " 

And  thus  I  wait  till  Resurrection  Day. 

D.  M.  MiLOCK  Craik. 


134  THE  MOUNTAINS. 


THE   TRUMPETS    OF    DOOLKARNEIN. 

WITH  awful  walls,  far  glooming,  that  possess'd 
The  passes  'twixt  the  snow-fed  Caspian  foun- 
tains, 
Doolkarnein,  the  dread  lord  of  East  and  West, 

Shut  up  the  northern  nations  in  their  mountains  ; 
And  upon  platforms  where  the  oak-trees  grew, 

Trumpets  he  set,  huge  beyond  dreams  of  wonder, 
Craftily  purpos'd,  when  his  arms  withdrew. 

To  make  him  thought  still  housed  there,  like  the 
thunder  : 
And  so  it  fell ;  for  when  the  winds  blew  right, 
They  woke  the  trumpets  to  their  calls  of  might. 

Unseen,  but  heard,  their  calls  the  trumpets  blew, 

Ringing  the  granite  rocks,  their  only  bearers, 
Till  the  long  fear  into  religion  grew. 

And  never  more  those  heights  had  human  darers. 
Dreadful  Doolkarnein  was  an  earthly  god, 

His  walls  but  shadowed  forth  his  mightier  frowning  ; 
Armies  of  giants  at  his  bidding  trod 

From  realm  to  realm,  king  after  king  discrowning. 
When  thunder  spoke,  or  when  the  earthquake  stirr'd, 
Then,  muttering  in  accord,  his  host  was  heard. 

But  when  the  winters  marr'd  the  mountain  shelves 
And  softer  changes  came  with  vernal  mornings, 

Something  had  touch'd  the  trumpets'  lofty  selves, 
And  less  and  less  rang  forth  their  sovereign  warn- 


TRUMPETS   OF  DOOLh'ARXEIX.  135 

Fewer  and  feebler ;  as  when  silence  spreads 

In   plague-struck  tents,  where  haughty  chiefs,  left 
dying, 

Fail  by  degrees  upon  their  angry  beds, 

Till,  one  by  one,  ceases  the  last  stern  sighing. 

One  by  one,  thus,  their  breaths  the  trumi)ets  drew, 

Till  now  no  more  the  imperious  music  blew. 

Is  he  then  dead  ?     Can  great  Doolkarnein  die, 

Or  can  his  endless  hosts  elsewhere  be  needed  ? 
Were  the  great  breaths  that  blew  his  minstrelsy 

Phantoms,  that  faded  as  himself  receded  ? 
Or  is  he  anger'd  ?     Surely  he  still  comes; 

This  silence  ushers  the  dread  visitation  ; 
Sudden  will  burst  the  torrent  of  his  drums, 

And  then  will  follow  bloody  desolation. 
So  did  Fear  dream  ;  though  now,  with  not  a  sound 
To  scare  good  Hope,  summer  had  twice  crept  round. 

Then  gathered  in  a  band,  with  lifted  eyes, 

The  neighbors  ;  and  those  silent  heights  ascended. 
Giant,  nor  aught  blasting  their  bold  emprize 

They  met,   though    twice   they  halted,  breath   sus- 
pended, — 
Once,  at  a  coming  like  a  god's  in  rage 

With   thunderous  leaps  ;  but  'twas  the  pil'd  snow 
falling ; 
And  once,  when  in  the  woods  an  oak,  for  age. 

Fell  dead,  the  silence  with  its  groan  appalling. 
At  last  they  came  where  still,  in  dread  array, 
As  though  they  still  might  speak,  the  trumpets  lay. 

Aslant  they  lay,  like  caverns  above  ground, 

The  rifted  rocks,  for  hands,  about  them  clinging, 


136  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Their  tubes  as  straight,  their  mighty  mouths  as  round 
And  firm,  as  when  the  rocks  were  first  set  rino-ing. 

Fresh  from  their  unimaginable  mould 

They  might  have  seemed,  save  that  the  storms  had 
stain'd  them 

With  a  rich  rust,  that  now,  with  gloomy  gold 

In  the  bright  sunshine,  beauteously  engrain'd  them. 

Breathless  the  gazers  look'd,  nigh  faint  for  awe, 

Then  leaped  and  laugh'd.     What  was  it  now  they  saw  ? 

Myriads  of  birds.     Myriads  of  birds  that  fill'd 

The  trumpets  all  with  nests  and  nestling  voices  ! 
The  great,  huge,  stormy  music  had  been  still'd 

By  the  soft  needs  that  nurs'd  those  small,  sweet 
noises  ! 
O  thou  Doolkarnein,  where  is  now  thy  wall? 

Where  now  thy  voice  divine  and  all  thy  forces  ? 
Great  was  thy  cunning,  but  its  wit  was  small 

Compar'd  with  Nature's  least  and  gentlest  courses. 
Fears  and  false  creeds  may  fright  the  realms  awhile  ; 
But  Heaven  and  Earth  abide  their  time  and  smile. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


FROM  THE  PASSAGE  OF  HANNIBAL  OVER 
THE   ALPS. 

'THURBID  with  stones  and  trunks  of  trees,  descends 
-^       The  Alpine  stream  :  the  ashen  forests  rends  ; 
Rolls  mountain  fragments,  crumbling  to  the  shock, 
And  beats  with  raving  surge  the  channell'd  rock. 
Of  nameless  depth,  its  ever-changing  bed 
Betrays  the  fording  warriors'  faithless  tread  ; 


ALPINE   PASSAGE   OF  IfAXXlBAL.        137 

The  broad  and  flat  pontoon  is  launched  in  vain, 

Hijn^h  swells  the  flood  with  delu<^es  of  rain  ; 

Snatch'd  with  his  arms,  the  stagt^erini^  soldier  slides, 

And  man<;led  bodies  toss  in  gulfy  tides. 

But  now,  the  o'er-hangino^  Alps,  in  prospect  near, 

Efface  remember'd  toils  in  future  fear. 

While  with  eternal  frost,  with  hailstones  piled. 

The  ice  of  aijes  grasps  those  summits  wild. 

Stiffening  with  snow,  the  mountain  soars  in  air. 

And  fronts  the  rising  sun,  unmelted  by  the  glare. 

As  the  Tartarean  gulf,  beneath  the  ground, 

Yawns  to  the  gloomy  lake  in  hell's  profound, 

So  high  earth's  heaving  mass  the  air  invades. 

And  shrouds  the  heaven  with  intercepting  shades. 

No  spring,  no  summer,  strews  its  glories  here. 

Lone  winter  dwells  upon  these  summits  drear, 

And  guards  his  mansion  round  the  endless  year. 

Mustering  from  far,  around  his  grisly  form, 

Black  rains,   and   hail-storm  showers,  and  clouds   of 

storm. 
Here  in  their  wrathful  kingdom  wliirlwinds  roam, 
And  the  blasts  struggle  in  their  Alpine  home. 
The  upward  sight  a  swimming  darkness  shrouds, 
And  the  high  crags  recede  into  the  clouds. 
First  Hercules  those  untried  heights  explored, 
And  midst  the  aerial  hills  adventurous  soar'd  ; 
The  gods  beheld  him  cleave  through  many  a  cloud. 
While  sinking  rocks  beneath  his  footsteps  bow'd. 
And,  striving,  leave  the  vanquished  steeps  below, 
Where  never  foot  had  touched  the  eternal  snow. 
Did  Taurus,  piled  on  Athos,  pierce  the  skies, 
And  Mimas,  heav'd  on  Rhodope,  arise, 


138  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

Haemus  its  steepy  mass  on  Othr3'-s  roll, 
And  Pelion,  rear'd  on  Ossa,  shade  the  pole, 
Mountain  on  mountain  would  in  vain  be  hurl'd, 
And  lessening  shrink  beside  the  Alpine  world. 

SiLifs  Italicus  (Translation  of  Sir  C.  A.  Elton). 


THE    BURIAL   OF   MOSES. 

"  And   he  buried  him  in  a  valley  in  the  land  of  Moab,  over  against 
Beth-peor ;  but  no  man  knoweth  of  his  sepulchre  unto  this  day." 

Deut.  XXXVI.  6. 

I Y  Nebo's  lonely  mountain, 
On  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 
In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab 

There  lies  a  lonely  grave  ; 
And  no  man  dug  that  sepulchre, 

And  no  man  saw  it  e'er  ; 
For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the  sod. 
And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 


B 


That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  passed  on  earth  ; 
But  no  man  heard  the  trampling, 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth. 
Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  when  the  night  is  done, 
And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's  cheek 

Grows  into  the  great  sun  ; 

Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 
Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves. 

And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 
Open  their  thousand  leaves  : 


BURIAL    OF  MOSES.  139 

So,  without  sound  of  music 

Or  voice  of  tiiem  that  wept, 
Silently  down  from  the  mountain's  crown 

The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle, 

On  gray  Beth-peor's  height, 
Out  of  his  rocky  eyrie 

Looked  on  the  wondrous  sight ; 
Perchance  the  lion  stalking 

Still  shuns  the  hallowed  spot : 
For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 

That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

But  when  the  warrior  dieth, 

His  comrades  in  the  war, 
With  arms  reversed  and  muffled  drum, 

Follow  the  funeral  car  ; 
They  show  the  banners  taken. 

They  tell  the  battles  won, 
And  after  him  lead  the  masterless  steed, 

While  peals  the  minute-gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Men  lay  the  sage  to  rest. 
And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place. 

With  costly  marble  dressed. 
In  the  great  minster-transept, 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall: 
And  the  sweet  choir  sings,  and  the  organ  rings 

Along  the  emblazoned  wall. 

This  was  the  bravest  warrior 
That  ever  buckled  sword, 


I40  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

This  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word  ; 
And  never  earth's  philosopher 

Traced  with  his  golden  pen 
On  the  deathless  page  truths  half  so  sage 

As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 

And  had  he  not  high  honor?  — 

The  hillside  for  his  pall ; 
To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait, 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall ; 
And  the  dark  rock-pines,  like  tossing  plumes 

Over  his  bier  to  wave, 
And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely  land. 

To  lay  him  in  his  grave. 

In  that  deep  grave  without  a  name, 

Whence  his  uncofRned  clay 
Shall  break  again  — most  wondrous  thought !  — 

Before  the  judgment-day, 
And  stand,  with  glory  wrapped  around, 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod. 
And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life 

With  the  incarnate  Son  of  God. 

O  lonely  tomb  in  Moab's  land  ! 

O  dark  Beth-peor's  hill ! 
Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours. 

And  teach  them  to  be  still ; 
God  hath  His  mysteries  of  grace, 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell  ; 
He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  secret  sleep 

Of  him  He  loved  so  well. 

C.   F.  Alexander. 


A   LEGEND   OE  BREGENZ.  i.]i 


A    LEGEND    OF    BREGENZ. 

/^^IRT  round  witli  rugged  mountains 
^-^      The  fair  Lake  Constance  lies  ; 
In  her  blue  heart  reflected 

Shine  back  the  starry  skies  ; 
And,  watching  each  white  cloudlet 

Float  silently  and  slow, 
You  think  a  piece  of  Heaven 

Lies  on  our  earth  below  ! 

Midnight  is  there  :   and  Silence, 

Enthroned  in  Heaven,  looks  down 
Upon  her  own  calm  mirror, 

Upon  a  sleeping  town  : 
For  Bregenz,  that  quaint  city 

Upon  the  Tyrol  shore. 
Has  stood  above  Lake  Constance 

A  thousand  years  and  more. 

Her  battlements  and  towers, 

From  off  their  rocky  steep. 
Have  cast  their  trembling  shadow 

For  ages  on  the  deep  : 
Mountain,  and  lake,  and  valley, 

A  sacred  legend  know, 
Of  how  the  town  was  saved,  one  night, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

Far  from  her  hcune  and  kindred 

A  Tyrol  maid  had  fled, 
To  serve  in  the  Swiss  valleys, 

And  toil  for  daily  bread  ; 


142  THE  MOUNTAIN'S. 

And  every  year,  that  fleeted 

So  silently  and  fast, 
Seemed  to  bear  farther  from  her 

The  memory  of  the  Past. 

She  served  kind,  gentle  masters. 

Nor  asked  for  rest  or  change  ; 
Her  friends  seemed  no  more  new  ones, 

Their  speech  seemed  no  more  strange  ; 
And  when  she  led  her  cattle 

To  pasture  every  day, 
She  ceased  to  look  and  wonder 

On  which  side  Bregenz  lay. 

She  spoke  no  more  of  Bregenz, 

With  longing  and  with  tears  ; 
Her  Tyrol  home  seemed  faded 

In  a  deep  mist  of  years  ; 
She  heeded  not  the  rumors 

Of  Austrian  war  and  strife  ; 
Each  day  she  rose  contented 

To  the  calm  toils  of  life. 

Yet,  when  her  master's  children 

Would  clustering  round  her  stand, 
She  sang  them  ancient  ballads 

Of  her  own  native  land  ; 
And  when  at  morn  and  evening 

She  knelt  before  God's  throne, 
The  accents  of  her  childhood 

Rose  to  her  hps  alone. 

And  so  she  dwelt :  the  valley 
More  peaceful  year  by  year  ; 


A   LEGEXD   OF  DREGENZ.  143 

When  suddenly  strange  portents 

Of  some  <ireat  deed  seemed  near. 

The  golden  corn  was  bending 
Upon  its  fragile  stalk, 

While  farmers,  heedless  of  their  fields, 
Paced  up  and  down  in  talk. 

The  men  seemed  stern  and  altered, 

With  looks  cast  on  the  ground  ; 
With  anxious  faces,  one  by  one. 

The  women  gathered  round  ; 
All  talk  of  flax  or  spinning 

Or  work  was  put  away  ; 
The  very  children  seemed  afraid 

To  go  alone  to  play. 

One  day,  out  in  the  meadow 

With  strangers  from  the  town, 
Some  secret  plan  discussing. 

The  men  w^alked  up  and  down. 
Yet  now  and  then  seemed  watching 

A  strange  uncertain  gleam, 
That  looked  like  lances  'mid  the  trees 

That  stood  below  the  stream. 

At  eve  they  all  assembled. 

Then  care  and  doubt  were  fled  ; 
With  jovial  laugh  they  feasted, 

The  board  was  nobly  spread. 
The  elder  of  the  village 

Rose  up,  his  glass  in  hand, 
And  cried,  "We  drink  the  downfall 

Of  an  accursed  land  ! 


144  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

"The  nio;ht  is  growing  darker, 

Ere  one  more  day  is  flown, 
Bregenz,  our  foeman's  stronghold, 

Bregenz  shall  be  our  own  !  " 
The  women  shrank  in  terror 

(Yet  Pride,  too,  had  her  part), 
But  one  poor  Tyrol  maiden 

Felt  death  within  her  heart. 

Before  her  stood  fair  Bregenz  ; 

Once  more  her  towers  arose  ; 
What  were  the  friends  beside  her  ? 

Only  her  country's  foes  ! 
The  faces  of  her  kinsfolk. 

The  days  of  childhood  flown. 
The  echoes  of  her  mountains. 

Reclaimed  her  as  their  own  ! 

Nothing  she  heard  around  her 

(Though  shouts  rang  forth  again), 
Gone  were  the  green  Swiss  valleys. 

The  pasture,  and  the  plain  ; 
Before  her  eyes  one  vision, 

And  in  her  heart  one  cry, 
That  said,  "  Go  forth,  save  Bregenz, 

And  then,  if  need  be,  die  !  " 

With  trembling  haste  and  breathless, 
With  noiseless  step,  she  sped  ; 

Horses  and  weary  cattle 

Were  standing  in  the  shed  ; 

She  loosed  the  strong,  white  charger 
That  fed  from  out  her  hand, 


A    LEG  EX D   OF  BREGENZ.  i-}5 

She  mounted,  and  she  turned  his  head 
Towards  her  native  land. 

Out — out  into  the  darkness  — 

Faster,  and  still  more  fast  ; 
The  smooth  grass  flies  behind  her, 

The  chestnut  wood  is  past ; 
She  looks  up  :  clouds  are  heavy  ; 

Why  is  her  steed  so  slow  ?  — 
Scarcely  the  wind  beside  them 

Can  pass  them  as  they  go. 

"  Faster  !  "  she  cries,  "  Oh  faster !  " 

Eleven  the  church-bells  chime  : 
"  O  God,"  she  cries,  "  help  Bregenz, 

And  bring  me  there  in  time  !  " 
But  louder  than  bells'  ringing, 

Or  lowing  of  the  kine. 
Grows  nearer  in  the  midnight 

The  rushing  of  the  Rhine. 

Shall  not  the  roaring  waters 

Their  headlong  gallop  check  ? 
The  steed  draws  back  in  terror, 

She  leans  upon  his  neck 
To  watch  the  flowing  darkness  ; 

The  bank  is  high  and  steep  ; 
One  pause  —  he  staggers  forward, 

And  plunges  in  the  deep. 

She  strives  to  pierce  the  blackness, 

And  looser  throws  the  rein  ; 
Her  steed  must  breast  the  waters 

That  dash  above  his  mane. 

10 


146  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

How  galkintly,  bow  nobly, 

He  struggles  through  the  foam, 

And  see  —  in  the  far  distance 

Shine  out  the  lights  of  home  ! 

Up  the  steep  banks  he  bears  her, 

And  now  they  rush  again 
Towards  the  heights  of  Bregenz, 

That  tower  above  the  plain. 
They  reach  the  gate  of  Bregenz, 

Just  as  the  midnight  rings, 
And  out  come  serf  and  soldier 

To  meet  the  news  she  brings. 

Bregenz  is  saved  !     Ere  daylight 

Her  battlements  are  manned  ; 
Defiance  greets  the  army 

That  marches  on  the  land. 
And  if  to  deeds  heroic 

Should  endless  fame  be  paid, 
Bregenz  does  well  to  honor 

The  noble  Tyrol  maid. 

Three  hundred  years  are  vanished, 

And  yet  upon  the  hill 
An  old  stone  gateway  rises 

To  do  her  honor  still. 
And  there,  when  Bregenz  women 

Sit  spinning  in  the  shade, 
They  see  in  quaint  old  carving 

The  Charger  and  the  Maid. 

And  when,  to  guard  old  Bregenz, 
By  gateway,  street,  and  tower, 


CAVERN  OF   rilE    THREE    TELLS.        147 

The  warder  paces  all  ni;^ht  loni^ 

And  calls  each  passing  hour  ; 
"  Nine,"  "ten,"  "eleven,"  he  cries  aloud, 

And  then  (O  crown  of  Fame!) 
When  midnight  pauses  in  the  skies, 

He  calls  the  maiden's  name  ! 

Adelaide  A.  Procter. 


THE    CAVERN    OF   THE   THREE   TELLS. 

/^H  !  enter  not  yon  shadowy  cave, 
^-^     Seek  not  the  bright  spars  there. 
Though  the  whispering  pines  that  o'er  it  wave. 
With  freshness  fill  the  air  ; 

For  here  the  Patriot  Three, 

In  the  garb  of  old  arrayed. 
By  their  native  Forest-sea 
On  a  rocky  couch  are  laid. 

The  Patriot  Three  that  met  of  yore, 

Beneath  the  midnight  sky, 
And  leagued  their  hearts  on  the  Griitli  shore, 
In  the  name  of  Liberty  ! 
Now  silently  they  sleep 

Amidst  the  hills  they  freed  ; 
But  their  rest  is  only  deep. 

Till  their  country's  hour  of  need. 

They  start  not  at  the  hunter's  call. 

Nor  the  Lammer  geyer's  cry, 
Nor  the  rush  of  a  sudden  torrent's  fall, 

Nor  the  Lauwine  thundering  by  ! 


148  THE   MOUNTAIXS. 

And  the  Alpine  herdsman's  lay, 
To  a  Switzer's  heart  so  dear, 

On  the  wild  wind  floats  away, 
No  more  for  them  to  hear. 

But  when  the  battle-horn  is  blown 

Till  the  Schreckhorn's  peaks  reply, 
When  the  Jungfrau's  cliffs  send  back  the  tone 
Through  their  eagles'  lonely  sky  : 

When  spear-heads  hght  the  lakes. 
When  trumpets  loose  the  snows. 
When  the  rushing  war-steed  shakes 
The  glacier's  mute  repose ; 

When  Uri's  beechen  woods  wave  red 
In  the  burning  hamlet's  light,  — 
Then  from  the  cavern  of  the  dead 
Shall  the  sleepers  wake  in  might ! 

With  a  leap,  like  TelFs  proud  leap, 

When  away  the  helm  he  flung, 
And  boldly  up  the  steep 

From  the  flashing  billow  sprung  ! 

They  shall  wake  beside  their  Forest-sea, 

In  the  ancient  garb  they  wore 
When  they  linked  the  bands  that  made  us  free. 
On  the  Griitli's  moonlight  shore : 

And  their  voices  shall  be  heard 

And  be  answered  with  a  shout, 
Till  the  echoing  Alps  are  stirred. 
And  the  signal-fires  blaze  out. 

And  the  lands  shall  see  such  deeds  again 
As  those  of  that  proud  day. 


THE    /.olJ-.h'    .-tMuM,     JJII:    Ihl  IS.         1)9 

When  Winkilried,  on  Sempach's  plain, 
Through  the  serrieil  spears  made  way  ; 
And  when  the  rocks  came  down 

On  tlie  dark  Morgarten  dell, 
And  the  crown6d  casques,  o'erlhrown, 
Before  our  fathers  fell ! 

For  the  Kiihreihen's  notes  must  never  sound 

In  a  land  that  wears  the  chain. 
And  the  vines  on  freetlom's  holy  ground 
Untrampled  must  remain  ! 

And  the  yellow  harvests  wave 

F'or  no  stranger's  hand  to  reap, 
While  within  their  silent  cave 
The  men  of  Griitli  sleep  ! 

I-EI.ICIA    HeMANS. 


THE    LOVER    AMONG    THE    HILLS. 

TI?ROM  hill  to  hill  I  roam,  from  thought  to  thought, 
-■-      With  Love  my  guide  ;  the  beaten  path  I  tiy, 
For  there  in  vain  the  tranquil  life  is  sought : 
If  'mid  the  waste  well  forth  a  lonely  rill, 
Or  deep  embosom'd  a  low  valley  lie. 
In  its  calm  shade  my  trembling  heart  is  still ; 
And  there,  if  Love  so  will, 
I  smile,  or  weep,  or  fondly  hope,  or  fear. 
While  on  my  varying  brow,  that  speaks  the  soul, 
The  wild  emotions  roll. 

Now  dark,  now  bright,  as  shifting  skies  appear; 
That  whosoe'er  has  proved  the  lover's  state 
Would  say,  He  feels  the  flame,  nor  knows  his  future 
fate. 


150  THE    MOUNTAINS. 

On  mountains  high,  in  forests  drear  and  wide, 

I  find  repose,  and  from  the  throng'd  resort 

Of  man  turn  fearfully  my  eyes  aside  ; 

At  each  lone  step  thoughts  ever  new  arise 

Of  her  I  love,  who  oft  with  cruel  sport 

Will  mock  the  pangs  I  bear,  the  tears,  the  sighs  ; 

Yet  e'en  those  ills  I  prize. 

Though  bitter,  sweet,  nor  would  they  were  removed  : 

For  my  heart  whispers  me.  Love  yet  has  power 

To  grant  a  happier  hour  ; 

Perchance,  though  self-despised,  thou  yet  art  loved  : 

E'en  then  my  breast  a  passing  sigh  will  heave, 

Ah  I  when,  or  how,  may  I  a  hope  so  wild  believe  ? 

Where  shadows  of  high  rocking  pines  dark  wave 

I  stay  my  footsteps,  and  on  some  rude  stone 

With  thought  intense  her  beauteous  face  engrave; 

Roused  from  the  trance,  my  bosom  bathed  I  find 

With  tears,  and  cry.  Ah  !  whither  thus  alone 

Hast  thou  far  wander'd,  and  whom  left  behind  ? 

But  as  with  fixed  mind 

On  this  fair  image  I  impassion'd  rest. 

And,  viewing  her,  forget  awhile  my  ills, 

Love  my  rapt  fancy  fills  : 

In  its  own  error  sweet  the  soul  is  blest. 

While  all  around  so  bright  the  visions  glide  ; 

Oh  !  might  the  cheat  endure  !   I  ask  not  aught  beside. 

Her  form  portray'd  within  the  lucid  stream 
Will  oft  appear,  or  on  the  verdant  lawn. 
Or  glossy  beech,  or  fleecy  cloud,  will  gleam 
So  lovely  fair,  that  Leda's  self  might  say 
Her  Helen  sinks  eclipsed,  as  at  the  dawn 


THE  LOVER  AMOXG    THE  HILLS.         151 

A  star  when  covered  by  the  solar  ray  : 

And.  as  o'er  wilds  I  stray 

Where  the  eye  nou<jht  but  savage  Nature  meets, 

There  F'ancy  most  her  brightest  tints  employs  ; 

But  when  rude  truth  destroys 

The  loved  illusion  of  those  dreamed  sweets, 

I  sit  me  down  on  the  cold,  rugged  stone, 

Less  cold,  less  dead  than  I,  and  think,  and  weep  alone. 

Where  the  huge  mountain  rears  his  brow  sublime, 

On  which  no  neighboring  height  its  shadow  flings, 

Led  by  desire  intense  the  steep  I  climb; 

And.  tracing  in  the  boundless  space  each  woe 

Whose  sad  remembrance  my  torn  bosom  wrings. 

Tears,  that  bespeak  the  heart  oerfraught,  will  flow  : 

While,  viewing  all  below. 

From  me,  I  cry,  what  worlds  of  air  divide 

The  beauteous  form,  still  absent  and  still  near ! 

Then,  chiding  soft  the  tear, 

I  whisper  low.  Haply  she  too  has  sigh'd 

That  thou  art  far  away  :  — a  thought  so  sweet 

Awhile  my  laboring  soul  will  of  its  burthen  cheat. 

Go  thou,  my  song,  beyond  that  Alpine  bound. 
Where  the  pure  smiling  heavens  are  most  serene, 
There  by  a  murmuring  stream  may  I  be  found, 
Whose  gentle  airs  around 
Waft  grateful  odors  from  the  laurel  green  ; 
Nought  but  my  empty  form  roams  here  unblest. 
There  dwells  my  heart  with  her  who  steals  it  from  my 
breast. 

Petkakch  (Dacre's  Trans'.atidii). 


152  THE   MOUNTAINS. 


TWO    ON    THE   MOUNTAIN. 

\    TURN,  and  we  stand  in  the  heart  of  things  : 
-^  ^  The  woods  are  round  us,  heaped  and  dim  ; 
From  slab  to  slab  how  it  slips  and  springs,  — 

The  thread  of  water  single  and  slim, 
Through  the  ravage  some  torrent  brings  ! 

Does  it  feed  the  httle  lake  below  ? 

That  speck  of  white  just  on  its  marge 
Is  Pella ;  see,  in  the  evening-glow, 

How  sharp  the  silver  spear-heads  charge 
When  Alp  meets  Heaven  in  snow. 

On  our  other  side  is  the  straight-up  rock  ; 

And  a  path  is  kept  'twnxt  the  gorge  and  it 
By  boulder-stones,  where  lichens  mock 

The  marks  on  a  moth,  and  small  ferns  fit 
Their  teeth  to  the  polished  block. 

And  yonder,  at  foot  of  the  fronting  ridge 
That  takes  the  turn  to  a  range  beyond, 

Is  the  chapel  reached  by  the  one-arched  bridge 
Where  the  water  is  stopped  in  a  stagnant  pond 

Danced  over  by  the  midge. 

Poor  little  place,  where  its  one  priest  comes 

On  a  festa-day,  if  he  comes  at  all, 
To  the  dozen  folk  from  their  scattered  homes 

Gathered  within  that  precinct  small, 
By  the  dozen  ways  one  roams,  — 


TIVO    ON  THE  MOUXTAIX.  153 

To  drop  from  the  charcoal-burners'  huts, 
Or  climb  from  the  hemp-dressers'  low  shed, 

Leave  the  grange  where  the  woodman  stores  his  nuts, 
Or  the  wattled  cote  where  the  fowlers  spread 

Their  gear  on  the  rock's  bare  juts. 

And  all  day  long  a  bird  sings  there, 

And  a  stray  sheep  drinks  at  the  pond  at  times  : 
The  place  is  silent  and  aware  ; 

It  has  had  its  scenes,  its  joys  and  crimes, 
But  that  is  its  own  affair. 

Silent  the  crumbling  bridge  we  cross, 

And  pity  and  praise  the  chapel  sweet, 
And  care  about  the  fresco's  loss. 

And  wish  for  our  souls  a  like  retreat, 
And  wonder  at  the  moss. 

We  stoop  and  look  in  through  the  grate. 

See  the  little  porch  and  rustic  door, 
Read  duly  the  dead  builder's  date. 

Then  cross  the  bridge  we  crossed  before, 
Take  the  path  again  —  but  wait ! 

Oh  moment,  one  and  infinite  ! 

The  water  slips  o'er  stock  and  stone  ; 
The  west  is  tender,  hardly  bright  ; 

How  gray  at  once  is  the  evening  grown,  — 
One  star,  the  chrysolite  ! 

We  two  stood  there  with  never  a  third. 

But  each  by  each,  as  each  knew  well : 
The  sights  we  saw  and  the  sounds  we  heard. 

The  lights  and  the  shades,  made  up  a  spell 
Till  the  trouble  grew  and  stirred. 


154  THE   MOUNTAINS. 


Oh,  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is  ! 

And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away  ! 
How  a  sound  shall  quicken  content  to  bliss, 

Or  a  breath  suspend  the  blood's  best  play, 
And  life  be  a  proof  of  this  ! 

A  moment  after,  and  hands  unseen 

Were  hanging  the  night  around  us  fast ; 

But  we  knew  that  a  bar  was  broken  between 
Life  and  life  :  we  were  mixed  at  last 

In  spite  of  the  mortal  screen. 

The  forests  had  done  it ;  there  they  stood ; 

We  caught  for  a  second  the  powers  at  play  ; 
They  had  mingled  us  so,  for  once  and  for  good, 

Their  work  was  done  —  we  might  go  or  stay, 
They  relapsed  to  their  ancient  mood. 

I  am  named  and  known  by  that  hour's  feat ; 

There  took  my  station  and  degree  : 
So  grew  my  own  small  life  complete 

As  Nature  obtained  her  best  of  me  — 
One  boon  to  love  you,  Sweet ! 

Robert  Browning. 

IN    THE    PASS. 

A  CROSS  my  road  a  mountain  rose  of  rock, — 
-*-  ■*-  Fierce,  naked  rock.     Its  shadow,  black  and  chill. 
Shut  out  the   sun.     Gray    clouds,  which    seemed  to 

mock 
With  cruel  challenges  my  helpless  will, 
Sprang  up  and  scaled  the  steepest  crags.     The  shrill 


//\'   TIIR   PASS.  155 

Winds,  two  and  two,  went  breathless  out  and  in, 
Filling  the  darkened  air  with  evil  din. 

I  turned  away  my  weary  steps  and  said  : 
"This  must  be  confine  of  some  fearful  place  ; 
Here  is  no  path  for  mortal  man  to  tread. 
Who  enters  here  will  tremble,  face  to  face 
With  powers  of  darkness,  whose  unearthly  race 
In  cloud  and  wind  and  storm  deliglus  to  dwell, 
Ruling  them  all  by  an  uncanny  spell." 

The  guide  but  smiled,  and,  holding  fast  my  hand. 

Compelled  me  up  a  path  I  had  not  seen. 

It  wound  round  ledges  where  I  scarce  could  stand  ; 

It  plunged  to  sudden  sunless  depths  between 

Immeasurable  clifTs,  which  seemed  to  lean 

Together,  closing  as  we  passed,  like  door 

Of  dungeon  which  would  open  nevermore. 

I  said  again  :   ''  I  will  not  go.     This  way 

Is  not  for  mortal  feet."     Again  the  guide 

But  smiled,  and  I  again  could  but  obey. 

The  path  grew  narrow  :  thundering  by  its  side, 

As  loud  as  ocean  at  its  highest  tide, 

A  river  rushed,  all  black,  and  green,  and  white, 

A  boiling  stream  of  molten  malachite. 

Sudden  I  heard  a  joyous  cry,  ''  BehoM,  1  ehold  !  " 
And,  smiling  still  on  me,  the  good  guide  turned. 
And  pointed  where  broad,  sunny  fields  unrolled 
And  spread  like  banners  ;  green,  so  green  it  burned, 
And  lit  the  air  like  red  ;  and  blue  which  yearned 
From  all  the  lofty  dome  of  sky,  and  bent 
And  folded  low  and  circling:  like  a  tent  ; 


156  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

And  forests  ranged  like  armies,  round  and  round, 
At  feet  of  mountains  of  eternal  snow  ; 
And  valleys  all  alive  with  happy  sound,  — 
The  song  of  birds  ;  swift  brooks'  delicious  flow  ; 
The  mystic  hum  of  million  things  that  grow ; 
The  stir  of  men  ;  and  gladdening  every  way. 
Voices  of  little  children  at  their  play  ; 

And  shining  banks  of  flowers  which  words  refuse 

To  paint :  such  colors  as  in  summer-light 

The  rarest,  fleetest  summer  rainbows  use ; 

But  set  in  gold  of  sun  and  silver  white 

Of  dew,  as  thick  as  gems  which  blind  the  sight 

On  altar  fronts,  inlaid  with  precious  things, 

The  jewelled  gifts  of  centuries  of  kings. 

Then,  sitting  half  in  dream,  and  half  in  fear 
Of  how  such  wondrous  miracle  were  wrought, 
Thy  name,  dear  friend,  I  sudden  seemed  to  hear 
Through  all  the  charmed  air. 

My  loving  thought 
Through  patient  years  had  vainly  groped  and  sought, 
And  found  no  hidden  thing  so  rare,  so  good, 
That  it  might  furnish  thy  similitude. 

O  noble  soul !  whose  thoughts  like  mountains  stand, 

Whose  purposes,  like  adamantine  stone, 

Bar  roads  to  feeble  feet,  and  wrap  the  land 

In  seeming  shadow  !  —  thou,  too,  hast  thine  own 

Sweet  valleys  full  of  flowers,  for  me  alone  ; 

Unseen,  unknown,  undreamed  of  by  the  mass. 

Who  do  not  know  the  secret  of  the  Pass. 

H.  H. 

Cortina  d'  Ampezzo,  Ampezzo  Pass,  June  22,  iS6g. 


TIIORALF  AA'D  SYXXdy.  157 

THORALF   AND    SYNNOV. 
A  Norse  Idyl. 

(~\^  have  you  been  in  Gudbrancrs-Dale,  where  Laa- 

^-^     gen's  mighty  flood 

Chants  evermore  its  stirring  strain  unto  the  hstcning 

wood  ? 
And  have  you  seen  the  evening  sun  on  those  bright 

glaciers  glow, 
When  valley-ward  it  shoots  and  darts  like  shafts  from 

elfin  bow  ? 

Have  you  beheld  the  maidens,  when  the  saeter*  path 
they  tread, 

With  the  ribbons  in  their  sunny  hair  and  the  milk- 
pails  on  their  head  ? 

And  have  you  heard  the  fiddles,  when  they  strike  the 
lusty  dance  ? 

Then  you  have  heard  of  Synnov  Houg,  and  of  myself 
perchance. 

For  Synnov  Houg   is   lissome  as   the   limber  willow 

spray, 
And  when  you  think  you  hold  her  fast,  and  she  is 

yours  for  aye. 
Then  like  an  airy  blow-ball  that  dances  o'er  the  lea 
She   gently  through    your   fingers    slips,    and   lightly 

floateth  frej. 

*The  saeter  is  the  region  in  the  highlands  where  the  N'i'rwriri.ui  pt-.is- 
ants  ^end  the  greater  part  of  the  summer  pasturing  their  cattle. 


158  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

Then  it  was  last  St.  John's  Eve,  —  I  remember  it  so 

well,  — 
And  we  had  lit  a  bonfire  in  a  grass-grown  little  dell ; 
And  all  the  lads  and  maidens  were  seated  in  a  ring, 
And  some  were  telling  stories,   while   the  rest  were 

listening. 

Till  up  sprang  little  Synnov,  and  she  sang  a  stave  as 

clear 
As  the  skylark's  earliest  greeting  in  the  morning   of 

the  year  ; 
And  I,  —  I  hardly  knew  myself,  but  up  they  saw  me 

dart, 
For  every  note  of  Synnov's  stave  went  straight  unto 

my  heart. 

And  like  the  rushing  currents   that  from  the  glaciers 

flow. 
And  down  into  the  sunny  bays  their  icy  waters  throw, 
So  streamed  my  heav}'-  bass-notes  through  the  forests 

far  and  wide, 
And  Synnov's  treble  rocked  like  a  feather  on  the  tide. 

"And  little  Synnov,"  sang  I,  "  thou  art  good  and  very 
fair ;  "  "        • 

"And  little  Thoralf,"  sang  she,  "of  what  you  say,  be- 
ware !  " 

"  My  fairest  Synnov,"  quoth  I,  "  my  heart  was  ever 
thine, 

My  homestead  and  my  goodly  farm,  my  herds  of  low- 
ing kine." 

"  O  Thoralf,  dearest  Thoralf,  if  that  vour  meaning 
be,- 


TIIORALF  AND  SYXNOV.  159 

If  your  big  heart  can  hold  such  a  little  thing  as  me, 
Then —  I  shall  truly  tell  you  if  e'er  I  want  a  man  ; 
And  —  you  are  free  to  catch  me,  handsome  Thoralf, — 
if  you  can." 

And   down   the  hillside  ran   she,   where    the    tangkd 

thicket  weaves 
A  closely  latticed  bower  with  its  intertwining  leaves  ; 
And  through  the  coppice  skipped  she,  light-footed  as 

a  hare, 
And  with  her  merry  laughter  rang  the  forests  far  and 

near. 

And  whenever  I  beheld  little  Synnov  all  that  year. 
She  fled  from  my  sight  as  from  hunter's  shaft  the  deer. 
I  lay  awake  full  half  the  nights,  and  knew  not  what  to 

do, 
For  I  loved  little  Synnov  so  tenderly  and  true. 

Then  'twas  a  summer  even  up  in  the  birchen  glen 

I  sat  listening  to  the  cuckoo  and  the  twitter  of  the 

wren  ; 
And  suddenly  above  me  rang  out  a  silver  voice  — 
It  rose  above  the  twittering  birds  and  o'er  the  river's 


There  sat  my  Httle  love,  where  the  rocks  had  made  a 

seat, 
And  the  crimson-tipped  flowerets  grew  all  around  her 

feet, 
And  on  her  yellow  locks  clung  a  tiny  roguish  hood,  — 
The  edge  was   made  of  swan's  down,  but  the  cloth 

was  red  as  blood. 


i6o  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

And  noiselessly  behind  her  I  had  stolen  through  the 

copse  ; 
I  cursed  the  restless  birch-trees  when  they  waved  their 

rustling  tops. 
Full  merrily  my  heart  beat ;  then  forth  I  leapt  in  haste, 
And  flung  a  slender  birch-bouo-h  around  the  maiden's 

waist. 

She  blushed  and  she  fluttered,  then  turned  away  to 

run  ; 
But  straight  into  my  sturdy  arms  I  caught  the  little 

one. 
I  put  her  gently  down  in  the  heather  at  my  side, 
Where  the  crimson-tipped  flowerets  the  rocky  ledges 

hide. 

And  as  the  prisoned  birdling,  when  he  knows  his  cage 

full  well 
Pours   forth    his    silver-toned  voice,   and   nought   his 

mirth  can  quell, 
So  little  Synnov,  striving  in  vain  my  hold  to  flee, 
Turned  quick  on  me  her  roguish  eyes  and  laughed  full 

heartily. 

"  My  little  Synnov,"  said  I,  ''  if  I  remember  right, 
'Twas   something  that  you  promised  me  a  year  ago 

to-night." 
Then  straight  she  stayed  her  laughter,  and  full  serious 

she  grew, 
And  whispered,  "  Little  Thoralf,  you  promised  some- 

HjALMAR    HjORTH    BoYESEX. 


THE  BRAES   a    GLENIEEER.  i6i 


THE    BRAES    O'    GLENIFFER. 

T^EEN  blaws  the  win'  o'er  the  braes  o'  Glcniffer, 
■*-^  The  auld  castle  turrets  are  covered  wi'  snaw  ; 
How  changed  frae  the  time  when  I  met  wi'  my  lover 

Amang  the  broom  bushes  by  Stanley-green  shaw. 
The  wildflowers  o'  summer  were  spread  a'  sae  bonnie, 

The  mavis  sang  sweet  frae  the  green  birken  tree  ; 
But   far   to    the    camp    they   ha'e    marched    my   dear 
Johnnie, 

And  now  it  is  winter  wi'  Nature  and  me. 

Then  ilk  thing  around  us  was  blithesome  and  cheerie, 

Then  ilk  thing  around  us  was  bonnie  and  braw  ; 
Now  naething  is  heard  but  the  wind  whistling  drearie, 

And  naething  is  seen  but  the  wide-spreading  snaw. 
The  trees  are  a'  bare,  and  the  birds  mute  and  dowie  ; 

They  shake  the  cauld  drift  frae  their  wings  as  they 
flee, 
And   chirp    out   their   plaints,    seeming   w^ae    for    my 
Johnnie  ; 

'Tis  winter  wi'  them,  and  'tis  winter  wi'  me. 

Yon  cauld  sleety  cloud  skiffs  alang  the  bleak  mountain, 

And  shakes  the  dark  firs  on  the  steep  rocky  brae. 
While  down  the  deep  glen  bawls  the   snaw-flooded 
fountain 
That  murmur'd  sae  sweet  to  my  laddie  and  me. 
It's  no'  its  loud  roar  on  the  wintry  wind  swellin', 

It's  no'  the  cauld  blast  brings  the  tear  i'  my  e'e  ; 
For  oh  !  gin  I  saw  but  my  bonnie  Scot's  callan, 
The  dark  days  o'  winter  were  summer  to  me. 

Robert  Tannahill. 
II 


1 62  THE   MOUNTAINS. 


MY  AIN    MOUNTAIN    LAND. 

/^H  !  wae's  me  on  gowd,  ys\'  its  glamour  and  fame, 
^-^     It  tint  me  my  love,  and  it  wiled  me  frae  hame, 
Syne  dwindled  awa'  like  a  neivefu'  o'  sand, 
And  left  me  to  mourn  for  my  ain  mountain  land. 

I  lang  for  the  glens,  and  the  brown  heather  fells. 
The  green  birken  shades,  where  the  wild  lintie  dwells, 
The  dash  o'  the  deep,  on  the  gray  rocky  strand 
That  girds  the  blue  hills  of  my  ain  mountain  land. 

I  dream  o'  the  dells  where  the  clear  burnies  flow, 
The  bonnie  green  knowes  where   the  green  gowans 

grow  ; 
But  I  wake  frae  my  sleep  like  a  being  that's  bann'd, 
And  shed  a  saut  tear  for  my  ain  mountain  land. 

I  ken  there's  a  lass  that  looks  out  on  the  sea, 
Wi'  tears  in  the  e'en  that  are  watchin'  for  me  ; 
Lang,  lang  she  may  wait  for  the  clasp  o'  my  hand, 
Or  the  fa'  o'  my  foot  in  my  ain  mountain  land. 

Thomas  Elliott. 


ABOVE   AND    BELOW. 
L 

r\  DWELLERS  in  the  valley-land, 
^^-^     Who  in  deep  twilight  grope  and  cower, 
Till  the  slow  mountain's  dial-hand 
Shortens  to  noon's  triumphal  hour,  — 


ABOVE  AXD  nrj.oiv.  163 

While  ye  sit  idle,  do  ye  think 

The  Lord's  great  work  sits  idle  too? 

That  light  dare  not  o'erleap  the  brink 
Of  morn,  because  'tis  dark  with  you  ? 

Though  yet  your  valleys  skulk  in  night, 

In  (}od\s  ripe  fields  the  day  is  cried, 
And  reapers,  with  their  sickles  bright. 

Troop,  singing,  down  the  mountain-side  : 
Come  up,  and  feel  what  health  there  is 

In  the  frank  Dawn's  delighted  eyes, 
As,  bending  with  a  pitying  kiss. 

The  night-shed  tears  of  Earth  she  dries  ! 

The  Lord  wants  reapers  :   Oh,  mount  uj). 

Before  night  comes,  and  says,  —  "  Too  late  I  " 
Stay  not  for  taking  scrip  or  cup, 

The  Master  hungers  while  ye  wait  ; 
'Tis  from  these  heights  alone  your  eyes 

The  advancing  spears  of  day  can  see, 
Which  o'er  the  eastern  hill-tops  rise, 

To  break  your  long  captivity. 

II. 

Lone  watcher  on  the  mountain-height  ! 

It  is  right  precious  to  behold 
The  first  long  surf  of  climbing  light 

Flood  all  the  thirsty  east  with  gold  ; 
But  we,  who  in  the  shadow  sit. 

Know  also  when  the  day  is  nigh, 
Seeing  thy  shining  forehead  lit 

With  his  inspiring  prophecy. 


1 64  THE   MOUXTAIXS. 

Thou  hast  thine  office  ;  we  have  ours  ; 

God  lacks  not  early  service  here, 
But  what  are  thine  eleventh  hours 

He  counts  with  us  for  mornino;  cheer ; 
Our  day,  for  Him,  is  long  enough, 

And,  when  He  giveth  work  to  do, 
The  bruised  reed  is  amply  tough 

To  pierce  the  shield  of  error  through. 

But  not  the  less  do  thou  aspire 

Light's  earlier  messages  to  preach  ; 
Keep  back  no  syllable  of  fire,  — 

Plunge  deep  the  rowels  of  thy  speech. 
Yet  God  deems  not  thine  aeried  sight 

More  worthy  than  our  twilight  dim, — 
For  meek  Obedience,  too,  is  Light, 

And  following  that  is  finding  Him. 

J.  R.  Lowell. 

THE   TWO    HOMES. 

TV  TY  home  was  seated  high  and  fair 

^^     Upon  a  mountain's  side  : 

The  day  was  longest,  brightest  there  ; 

Beneath,  the  world  was  wide. 
Across  its  blue,  embracing  zone 
The  rivers  gleamed,  the  cities  shone, 
And  over  the  edge  of  the  fading  rim 
I  saw  the  storms  in  the  distance  dim. 

And  the  flash  of  the  soundless  thunder. 

But  weary  grew  the  sharp,  cold  wine 
Of  winds  that  never  kissed, 


THE    TWO   HOMES.  165 

The  chano:eless  green  of  fir  and  pine, 

The  gray  and  clinging  mist. 
Above  the  granite  sprang  no  bowers  ; 
The  soil  gave  low  and  scentless  flowers  ; 
And  the  drone  and  din  of  the  waterfall 
Became  a  challenge,  a  taunting  call : 

"  'Tis  fair,  'tis  fair  in  the  valley  !  " 

Of  all  the  homesteads  deep  and  far 

My  fancy  clung  to  one, 
Whose  gable  burned,  a  mellow  star, 

Touched  by  the  sinking  sun. 
Unseen  around,  but  not  ungucssed, 
The  orchards  made  a  leafy  nest ; 
The  turf  before  it  was  thick,  I  knew, 
And  bees  were  busy  the  garden  through, 

And  the  windows  were  dark  with  roses. 

"  'Tis  happier  there,  below,"  I  sighed  : 

"  The  world  is  warm  and  near, 
And  closer  love  and  comfort  hide, 

That  cannot  reach  me  here. 
Who  there  abides  must  be  so  blest 
He'll  share  with  me  his  sheltered  nest, 
If  down  to  the  valley  I  should  go. 
Leaving  the  granite,  the  pines  and  snow. 

And  the  winds  that  are  keen  as  lances." 

I  wandered  down,  by  ridge  and  dell ; 

The  way  w\as  rough  and  long  : 
Though  earlier  shadows  round  me  fell, 

I  cheered  them  with  my  song. 
The  world's  great  circle  narrower  grew. 
Till  hedge  and  thicket  hid  the  blue  ; 


:66  THE   MOUNTAIXS. 

But  over  the  orchards,  near  at  hand, 
The  gable  shone  on  the  quiet  land, 
And  far  away  was  the  mountain  ! 

Then  came  the  master  :  mournful-eyed 

And  stern  of  brow  was  he. 
"  Oh,  planted  in  such  peace  !  "  I  cried, 

"  Spare  but  the  least  to  me  !  " 
"  Who  seeks,"  he  said,  '"this  brooding  haze. 
The  tameness  of  these  weary  days  ? 
The  highway's  dust,  the  glimmer  and  heat. 
The  woods  that  fetter  the  young  wind's  feet, 

And  hide  the  world  and  its  beauty  ?  " 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  ;  he  looked  afar 

With  eyes  of  old  desire  : 
I  saw  my  home,  a  mellow  star 

That  held  the  sunset's  fire. 
**  But  yonder  home,"  he  cried,  "  how  fair  ! 
Its  chambers  burn  like  gilded  air ; 
I  know  that  the  gardens  are  wild  as  dreams, 
With  the  sweep  of  winds,  the  dash  of  streams. 

And  the  pines  that  sound  as  an  anthem  ! 

"  So  quiet,  so  serenely  high 

It  sits,  when  clouds  are  furled, 
And  knows  the  beauty  of  the  sky, 

The  glory  of  the  world  ! 
Who  there  abides  must  be  so  blest 
He'll  share  with  me  that  lofty  crest, 
If  up  to  the  mountain  I  should  go, 
Leaving  the  dust  and  the  glare  below. 

And  the  weary  life  of  the  valley  !  " 

Bayard  Taylor. 


THE   GOLDEN'  ISLAXD.  iG-j 


THE   GOLDEN    ISLAND:    AKRAN    FROM 
AYR. 

DVAW  set  in  distant  seas  it  lies  ; 
The  morning  vapors  float  and  f.dl, 
The  noonday  clouds  above  it  rise, 
Then  drop  as  white  as  virgin's  pall. 

And  sometimes,  when  tliat  shroud  uplifts, 
The  far  green  fields  show  strange  and  fair  ; 

Mute  waterfalls  in  silver  rifts 
Sparkle  adown  the  hillsitie  bare. 

But  ah  !  mists  gather,  more  and  more  ; 

And  though  the  blue  sky  has  no  tears, 
And  the  sea  laughs  with  light  all  o'er, — 

The  lovely  Island  disappears. 

O  vanished  Island  of  the  blest ! 

O  dream  of  all  things  pure  and  high  ! 
Hid  in  deep  seas,  as  faithful  breast 

Hides  loves  that  have  but  seemed  to  die, — 

Whether  on  seas  dividing  tossed. 

Or  led  through  fertile  lands  the  while, 

Better  lose  all  things  than  have  lost 
The  memory  of  the  morning  Isle  ! 

For  lo  !  when  gloaming  shadows  glide, 
And  all  is  calm  in  earth  and  air, 

Above  the  heaving  of  the  tide 
The  lonely  Island  rises  fair; 


1 68  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

Its  purple  peaks  shine,  outlined  grand 
And  clear,  as  noble  lives  nigh  done ; 

While  stretches  bright  from  land  to  land 
The  broad  sea-pathway  to  the  sun. 

He  wraps  it  in  his  glory's  blaze, 

He  stoops  to  kiss  its  forehead  cold  ; 

And,  all  transfigured  by  his  rays, 
It  gleams — an  Isle  of  molten  gold. 

The  sun  may  set,  the  shades  descend, 

Earth  sleep  —  and  yet  while  sleeping  smile  ; 

But  it  will  live  unto  life's  end  — 
That  vision  of  the  Golden  Isle. 

D.   I\I.   MuLOCK  Craik. 


TO    THE    PEAKS    OF    OTTER. 

"r?AIR  are  thy  sunset  hues,  thy  dark  brow  blessing, 
-^      O  mountain  !   with  their  gift  of  golden  rays  ; 
And  the  few  floating  clouds,  thy  crest  caressing, 

Seem  guardian  angels  to  my  raptured  gaze  : 
I  have  looked  on  tliee  through  the  saddest  tears 

That  ever  human  sorrow  taught  to  flow, 
And  thou  wilt  come,  in  life's  recalling  years, 

Linked  with  the  memory  of  my  deepest  woe. 

Yet  well  I  love  thee,  in  thy  silent  mvstery. 
Thy  purple  shadows  and  thy  glowing  light  ; 

Thou  art  to  me  a  most  poetic  history 

Of  stillest  beauty  and  of  stormiest  might : 

I  owe  thee,  O  sublime  and  solemn  mountain, 
For  many  hours  of  vision  and  of  thought, 


TO    THE   PEAK'S   OF  OTTER.  \(^<) 

For  pleasant  draughts  from  Fancy's  ;^shln<^  fountain, 
For  bright  illusions  by  thy  prcsenct;  brou;^ht. 

And  more  I  thank  thee,  for  tiie  deeper  learning 

That  soothes  my  spirit  as  I  look  on  tiiee, 
For  thou  hast  laid  upon  my  soul's  wild  yearning 

The  holy  spell  of  thy  tranquillity: 
I  shall  recall  thee  with  a  long  regretting. 

And  often  pine  to  see  thy  brow  in  vain  ; 
While  Thought,  returning,  fond  and  unforgetting. 

Will  trace  thy  form  in  glory-tints  again. 

And  thou,  in  thine  experience,  all  material, 

Wilt  never  know  how  worshipped  thou  hast  been; 
No  glimpses  of  that  life  that  is  ethereal 

Shadow  thy  face,  eternally  serene  ! 
Thou  hast  not  felt  the  impulse  of  resistance,  — 

Thy  lot  has  linked  thee  with  the  earth  alone  : 
Thou  art  no  traveller  to  a  new  existence, 

Thou  hast  no  future  to  be  lost  or  won. 

The  past  contains  for  thee  no  bitter  fountain,  — 

Thou  hast  no  onward  mission  to  fulfil : 
And  I  would  learn  from  thee,  O  silent  mountain, 

All  things  enduring,  to  be  tranquil  still! 
And  now,  with  that  fond  reverence  of  feeling 

We  owe  whatever  wakes  our  loftiest  thought, 
I  can  but  offer  thee,  in  faint  revealing, 

These  idle  thanks  for  all  that  thou  hast  brought. 

Jane  T.  Wokthingtum. 


l7o  THE  MOUNTAINS. 


LIFE   AND    DEATH. 

AT  mornino;  I  stood  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
In  its  May-wreath  crowned,  and  there 
Saw  day-rise  in  gold  and  in  purple  glow, 
And  I  cried,  —  "  O  Life,  how  fair  !  " 

As  the  birds  in  their  bowers  their  lay  began. 

When  the  dawning  time  was  nigh. 
So  wakened  for  song  in  the  breast  of  man 

A  passion  heroic  and  high. 

My  spirit  then  felt  a  longing  to  soar 

From  home  afar  in  its  flight. 
To  roam,  like  the  sun,  still  from  shore  to  shore, 

A  creator  of  flowers  and  light. 

At  even  I  stood  on  the  mountain's  brow, 

And,  rapt  in  devotion  and  prayer. 
Saw  night-rise  in  silver  and  purple  glow, 

Andl  cried,  —  "  O  Death,  how  fair!" 

And  when  the  soft  evening  wind,  so  meek, 

With  its  balmy  breathing  came, 
It  seemed  as  though  Nature  then  kissed  my  cheek 

And  tenderly  sighed  my  name  ! 

I  saw  the  vast  Heaven  encompassing  all, 
Like  children  the  stars  to  her  came  ; 

The  exploits  of  man  then  seemed  to  me  small, — 
Nought  great  save  the  Infinite's  name. 


THE   OTHER  SIDE.  171 

Ah  !  how  unlieeded,  all  charms  which  invest 
The  joys  and  the  hopes  that  men  prize, 

While  the  eternal  tliouglits  in  the  poet's  breast, 
Like  stars  in  the  heavens,  arise  ! 

K.    SjOORKN. 

THE    OTHER    SIDE. 

/^~^LI AIDING  the  mountain's  shaggy  crest, 
^-^   I  wondered  much  what  sight  would  greet 

My  eager  gaze,  whene'er  my  feet 
Upon  the  topmost  height  should  rest. 

The  other  side  was  all  unknown  ; 

But  as  I  slowly  toiled  along. 

Sweeter  to  me  than  any  song 
My  dream  of  visions  to  be  shown. 

Meanwhile  the  mountain  shrubs  distilled 
Their  sweetness  all  along  my  way, 
And  the  delicious  summer  day 

My  heart  with  rapture  overfilled. 

At  length  the  topmost  height  was  gained, 
The  other  side  was  full  in  view  ; 
My  dreams  —  not  one  of  them  was  true, 

But  better  far  had  I  attained. 

For  far  and  wide  on  either  hand 

There  stretched  a  valley  broad  and  fair, 
With  greenness  flashing  everywhere,  — 

A  pleasant,  smiling,  home-like  land. 

Who  knows,  I  thought,  but  so  'twill  prove 
Upon  that  mountain-top  of  death, 
Where  we  shall  draw  diviner  breath, 

And  see  the  long-lost  friends  we  love. 


172  THE  MOUXTAIXS. 

It  may  not  be  as  we  have  dreamed,  — 
Not  half  so  awful,  strange,  and  grand ; 
A  quiet,  peaceful,  home-like  land, 

Better  than  e'er  in  vision  gleamed. 

Meanwhile,  along  our  upward  Avay, 

What  beauties  lurk,  what  visions  glow  ! 
Whatever  shall  be,  this  we  know 

Is  better  than  our  hps  can  say. 

John  \V.  Chadwick. 


ENTRANCE   TO    THE    PURGATORY    OF 
ST.    PATRICK. 

O  EE  ye  not  here  this  rock  some  power  seeureth, 
*^  That  grasf)s  with  awful  toil  the  hill-side  brown, 
And  with  the  very  anguish  it  endureth 
Age  after  age  seems  slowly  coming  down  ? 
Suspended  there  with  effort,  it  obscureth 
A  mighty  cave  beneath,  which  it  doth  crown  ;  — 
An  open  mouth  the  horrid  cavern  shapes. 
Wherewith  the  melancholy  mountain  gapes. 

This,  then,  by  mournful  cypress  trees  surrounded, 
Between  the  lips  of  rocks  at  either  side, 
Reveals  a  monstrous  neck  of  length  unbounded, 
Whose  tangled  hair  is  scantily  supplied 
By  the  wild  herbs  that  there  the  wind  hath  grounded, 
A  gloom  whose  depths  no  sun  has  ever  tried, 
A  space,  a  void,  the  gladsome  day's  affright, 
The  fatal  refuge  of  the  frozen  night. 

Calderon  (Translation  of  D.  F.  McCarthy). 


THE  STORM  IS  PAST.  173 


BEYOND. 

npiIII  stran2:er  wandL-rinL;  in  the  Swit/cr's  hiiul, 

Before  its  awful  mountain-tops  afraid.  — 
Who  yet,  with  patient  toil,  hath  l(  lined  his  st  uul 
On  the  hare  suniinit  where  all  life  is  stayed. 

Sees  far,  far  down,  beneath  his  blood-dimmed  eyes, 
Another  country,  golden  to  the  shore, 

Where  a  new  passion  and  new  hopes  arise, 
Where  Southern  blooms  unfold  for  evermore. 

And  I,  lone  sitting  by  the  twilight  blaze. 
Think  of  another  wanderer  in  the  snows, 

And  on  more  perilous  mountain-tops  I  gaze 
Than  ever  frowned  above  the  vine  and  rose. 

Yet  courage,  soul !  nor  hold  thy  strength  in  vain. 
In  hope  o'ercome  the  steeps  God  set  for  thee  ; 

For  past  the  Alpine  summits  of  great  pain, 
Lieth  thine  Italy. 

Rose  Tlkky   Cooke. 


THE    STORM    IS    PAST. 

'T^HE  storm  is  past :  the  green  hill-side 
-*-     Is  streaked  with  evening  gleams 
Let  out  through  rents  in  yon  dark  cloud, 
Day's  last  and  'oveliest  beams. 

Still  clings  the  tempest's  fleecy  skirt 
Round  Fairfield's  hollow  crest, 

Where  glorious  mists  in  many  a  fold 
Of  wavy  silver  rest. 


174-  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Deep  imaged  in  the  lake  serene 

The  shadowy  mountains  lie  : 
Deeper  than  heaven  itself  the  blue 

Of  that  unreal  sky. 

Oh  !  soft  falls  evening  on  the  heart 

With  gnawing  cares  deprest, 
Feeding  on  all  her  quiet  things,  — 

A  sacrament  of  rest ! 

Sin-blighted  though  we  are  —  yet  still 

Upon  our  weary  souls, 
Through  hills  and  woods,  through  lakes  and 
streams, 

A  tide  of  glory  rolls  : 

A  brimming  tide  from  heaven  that  flows 

Of  freshness  and  of  power, 

And  holy  strength  to  nerve  the  heart 

For  duty's  sterner  hour. 

F.   W.  Faber. 


MOUx\TAIN-TOP. 

T  STAND  on  high, 

-*■  Close  to  the  sky. 
Kissed  by  unsullied  lips  of  light ; 

Fanned  by  soft  airs 

That  seem  like  prayers 
Floating  to  God  through  ether  bright. 

The  emerald  lands, 
With  love-clasped  hands. 
In  smiling  peace  below  outspread  ; 


MOUNTAIN   TARNS.  175 

Around  me  rise 
The  amber  skies, 
A  dome  of  glory  o'er  my  head. 

Wind-swept  and  bare 

The  fields  of  air 
Give  the  weaned  eagles  room  for  play  : 

On  miLjhtier  \\\\\% 

My  soul  doth  spring 
To  unseen  summits  far  away. 

Charlks  G.  Ame?;. 
Gorham  to  Jefferson,  Aug.  1862. 

MOUNTAIN    TARNS. 

OH  asketh  thou  of  me 
What  store  of  thoughtful  glee 
By  mountain  tarns  is  lying, 
That  I  to  such  grim  nooks 
From  my  dull-hearted  books 
Should  evermore  be  flying  ? 

Go  thou,  and  spend  an  hour 
In  autumn  fog  and  shower 
Amid  the  thundering  rills, 
Or  hear  the  breezy  sigh 
Of  summer  quiet  die 
Among  the  noon-day  hills. 

The  eagle's  royal  soul 

Is  nurtured  in  the  roll 

And  echo  of  the  thunder, 

And  feeds  for  evermore 

Amid  the  summits  ho;ir 

On  siiihts  and  sounds  of  wonder. 


176  THE   MOUXTAIXS. 

The  murmur  of  the  stone 
With  hoarse  and  hollow  moan 
Self-loosened  from  the  height,  - 
The  water-fairs  white  showers 
In  midnight's  deepest  hours 
Creating  sound  and  light,  — 

The  pauses  in  the  blowing 
Of  winds,  when  oxen  lowing 
Are  heard  from  vales  beneath, 
The  underworld  of  care 
Scarce  burdening  the  air 
With  its  poor  plaintive  breath,  ■ 

The  fragrance  of  the  noon, 
The  nearness  of  the  moon, 
The  swampy  mosses  tingling, 
The  strife  of  peace  and  noise, 
Like  the  sorrows  and  the  joys 
In  earthly  lots  comminghng,  — 

To  all  such  sight  and  sound 
Is  the  eagle's  being  bound, 
A  destiny  of  bliss  ; 
These  spells  his  spirit  wake, 
These  influences  make 
The  eagle  what  he  is. 

So  I  of  lowly  birth, 
A  workman  on  the  earth, 
Would  cast  myself  apart. 
That  I  a  little  time 
From  dreariness  sublime 
Might  win  a  royal  heart. 


MOUXlWrX   TA/xWS.  177 

The  s:olden  cro\vn6cl  kin^^s 
Are  often  al)ject  tliiriijs  ; 
I  would  not  be  as  tliey  : 
But  mountain  winds  and  waves 
Teach  no  men  to  be  sl.ives, 
But  with  high  minds  obey. 

Great  emperors  fors^et, 
In  jewelled  places  set, 
The  human  heart  below  ; 
And  with  no  fellows  near 
They  often  cease  to  hear 
Its  holy  ebb  and  flow. 

But  I  from  mountain  throne 
Would  oftentime  come  down, 
And  leave  unto  the  breeze 
And  cataract  to  fill 
With  echoes  at  their  will 
My  dreary  royalties. 

I  would  in  mountain  haunt 
But  quicken  the  sweet  want 
Of  love  and  blisses  mild  ; 
And  I  would  alternate 
My  pomp  of  regal  state 
With  the  humors  of  a  child. 

There  is  a  power  to  bless 
In  hill-side  loneliness, 
In  tarns  and  dreary  places  ; 
A  virtue  in  the  brook, 
A  freshness  in  the  look 
Of  mountains'  joyless  faces. 
12 


178  .        THE   MOUNTAINS. 

And  I  would  have  my  heart 
From  httleness  apart, 
A  love-anointed  thing ; 
Be  set  above  my  kind, 
In  my  unfettered  mind 
A  veritable  king. 

And  so  when  life  is  dull, 

Or  when  my  heart  is  full 

Because  my  dreams  have  frowned, 

I  wander  up  the  rills 

To  stones  and  tarns  and  hills,  — 

I  go  there  to  be  crowned. 

F.  W.  Faeer. 


SONNET. 

T  STOOD  beside  a  pool,  from  whence  ascended, 
-■-     Mounting  the  cloudy  platforms  of  the  wind, 
A  stately  heron  ;  its  soaring  I  attended. 
Till  it  grew  dim,  and  I  with  watching  blind  — 
When  lo  !  a  shaft  of  arrowy  light  descended 
Upon  its  darkness  and  its  dim  attire : 
It  straightway  kindled  then,  and  was  afire, 
And  with  the  unconsuming  radiance  blended. 
And  bird,  a  cloud,  flecking  the  sunny  air, 
It  had  its  golden  dwelling  'mid  the  lightning 
Of  those  empyreal  domes  ;  and  it  might  thtre 
Have  dwelt  for  ever,  glorified  and  bright'ning. 
But  that  its  wings  were  weak — so  it  became 
A  dusky  speck  again,  that  was  a  winged  flame. 

R.  C.  Trench. 


BORDER   OF   THE    WILDERXESS.         179 


THE    BORDER    OF    THE    WH.DERXESS. 

^OWERE\G  heights  of  Ingall's  River 
-*■       Fir-fringed  crests'of  Mount  Success, 
Pine  and  birch  and  maple  forests, 
Border  of  the  wilderness,  — 

Darkening  in  the  evening  glory. 
Hiding  in  each  wild  ravine 
Depths  of  life,  of  mystic  beauty, 
Never  yet  by  mortal  seen  ;  — 

Still  ye  beckon,  beckon  ever, 
Saying:   "  Come,  our  sister,  come  ! 
Quit  the  weary,  glaring  highways, 
Seek  within  our  shades  a  home. 

*'  Firmly  stands  each  rocky  buttress, 
Bears  aloft  scant  growth  of  trees, 
Deep  beneath,  sweet  waters  pouring 
Mingle  music  with  the  breeze. 

"  Come,  O  sister,  come  and  rest  thee. 
Thou  and  we  are  thoughts  of  God ; 
Friends  alone  thou'lt  find  among  us, 
Friends  that  wield  no  critic's  rod. 


"  If  thy  locks  have  lost  their  shinin 
Tresses  gr^'iy  our  limbs  adorn  ; 
If  thy  brow  be  sadly  furrowed, 
Wrinkled  we,  ere  thou  wast  born. 


&» 


i8o  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

"  If  the  young  have  ceased  to  love  thee, 
Shun  they  too  our  awesome  ways  ; 
If  thy  steps  have  lost  their  fleetness, 
Here  we  stand  these  myriad  days. 


All  unsuited  to  thy  years  ? 
Every  fallen  trunk,  each  ruin, 
Greenest,  freshest  growth  uprears. 

"  Falls  thy  shadow  darkening  eastward  ? 
We  against  the  twilight  show, 
But  we  know  the  dawn  return eth  ;  — 
Wait  with  us  that  blessed  glow  !  " 

L.  D.  Pychowska. 

NIRVANA. 

A  LONG  the  scholar's  glowing  page 
'^^*-     I  read  the  Orient  thinker's  dream 

Of  things  that  are  not  what  they  seem, — 
Of  mystic  chant  and  Soma's  rage. 

The  sunlight  flooding  all  the  room 
To  me  again  was  Indra's  smile, 
And  on  the  hearth  the  blazing  pile 

For  Agni's  sake  did  fret  and  fume. 

Yet  most  I  read  of  who  aspire 

To  win  Nirvana's  deep  repose. 

Of  that  long  way  the  Spirit  goes 
To  reach  the  absence  of  desire. 


NIRVAXA.  18 1 

But  through  the  music  of  my  book 
Another  music  smote  my  ear  — 
A  tinkle  silver-sweet  and  clear  — 

The  babble  of  the  mountain-brook. 

"Oh  !  leave,"  it  said,  "your  ancient  seers  ; 

Come  out  into  the  woods  with  me  ; 

Behold  an  older  mystery 
Than  Buddhist's  hope  or  Brahman's  fears  !  " 

The  voice  so  sweet  I  could  but  hear  ;  • 

I  sallied  forth,  with  staff  in  hand. 
While,  mile  on  mile,  the  mountain-land 

Was  radiant  with  the  dying  year. 

I  heard  the  startled  partridge  whirr, 
And  crinkling  through  the  tender  grass 
I  saw  the  striped  adder  pass. 

Where  dropped  the  chestnut's  prickly  burr. 

I  saw  the  miracle  of  life 

From  death  upspringing  evermore  ; 

The  fallen  tree  a  forest  bore 
Of  tiny  forms  with  beauty  rife. 

I  gathered  mosses  rare  and  sweet, 
T-he  acorn  in  its  carven  cup : 
'Mid  heaps  of  leaves,  wind-gathered  up, 

I  trod  with  half-remorseful  feet. 

The  maple's  blush  I  made  my  own, 
The  sumac's  crimson  splendor  bold, 
The  poplar's  hue  of  paly  gold. 

The  faded  chestnut,  crisp  and  brown. 


THE  MOUNTAINS. 

I  climbed  the  mountain's  shaggy  crest, 
Where  masses  huge  of  molten  rock, 
After  long  years  of  pain  and  shock, 

Fern-covered,  from  their  wanderings  rest. 

Far,  far  below  the  valley  spread 
Its  rich,  roof-dotted,  wide  expanse  ; 
And  further  still  the  sunlight's  dance 

The  amorous  river  gayly  led. 

But  still,  with  all  I  heard  or  saw 

There  mingled  thoughts  of  that  old  time. 
And  that  enchanted  eastern  clime 

Where  Buddha  gave  his  mystic  law,  — 

Till,  wearied  with  the  lengthy  way, 
I  found  a  spot  where  all  was  still, 
Just  as  the  sun  behind  the  hill 

Was  making  bright  the  parting  day. 

On  either  side  the  mountains  stood, 

Masses  of  color  rich  and  warm  ; 

And  over  them  in  giant  form 
The  rosy  moon  serenely  glowed. 

My  heart  was  full  as  it  could  hold  ; 

The  Buddha's  paradise  was  mine  ; 

My  mountain-nook  its  inmost  shrine, 
The  fretted  sky  its  roof  of  gold. 

Nirvana's  peace  my  soul  had  found  — 
Absence  complete  of  all  desire  — 
While  the  great  moon  was  mounting  higher, 

And  deeper  quiet  breathed  around. 

John  W.  Chadwick. 


OVER    THE  MOUXTALV.  183 

OVER    THE   MOUNTAIN. 

T    IKE  dreary  prison  walls 

-*-^     The  stern,  gray  mountains  rise, 

Until  their  top-most  crags 

Touch  the  far  gloomy  skies  ; 
One  steep  and  narrow  path 

Winds  up  the  mountain's  crest, 
And  from  our  valley  leads 

Out  to  the  golden  West. 

I  dwell  here  in  content. 

Thankful  for  tranquil  days  ; 
And  yet  my  eyes  grow  dim, 

As  still  I  gaze  and  gaze 
Upon  that  mountain  pass 

That  leads  —  or  so  it  seems  — 
To  some  far  happy  land 

Known  in  a  world  of  dreams. 

And  as  I  watch  that  path 

Over  the  distant  hill, 
A  foolish  longing  comes 

My  heart  and  soul  to  fill ; 
A  painful,  strange  desire 

To  break  some  weary  bond  ; 
A  vague  unuttered  wish 

For  what  might  lie  beyond ! 

In  that  far  world  unknown, 

Over  that  distant  hill, 
May  dwell  the  loved  and  lost,  — 

Lost,  yet  beloved  still ; 


184  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

I  have  a  yearning  hope. 

Half  longing,  and  half  pain, 
That  by  that  mountain  pass 

They  may  return  again. 

Space  may  keep  friends  apart, 

Death  has  a  mighty  thrall ; 
There  is  another  gulf 

Harder  to  cross  than  all ; 
Yet  watching  that  far  road, 

My  heart  beats  full  and  fast : 
If  they  should  come  once  more, 

If  they  should  come  at  last ! 

See,  down  the  mountain  side 

The  silver  vapors  creep ; 
They  hide  the  rocky  cliffs. 

They  hide  the  craggy  steep, 
They  hide  the  narrow  path 

That  comes  across  the  hill :  — 
O  foolish  longing,  cease, 

O  beating  Heart,  be  still ! 

Adelaide  A.  Procter. 


SUNSET. 

TT  is  coming,  it  is  coming, 

-■-   That  marvellous  up-summing 
Of  the  loveliest  and  grandest  all  in  one  : 

The  great  transfiguration 

And  the  royal  coronation 
Of  the  Monarch  of  the  mountains  by  the  priestly  Sun. 


SLA'SET.  185 

Watch  breathlessly  and  hearken, 

While  the  forest  throne-steps  darken, 
His  investiture  in  crimson  and  in  fire ; 

Not  a  herald-trumpet  ringeth. 

Not  a  paean  echo  flingeth. 
There  is  music  of  a  silence  that  is  mightier  far,  and 
higher. 

Then  in  radiant  obedience 

A  flush  of  bright  allegiance 
Lights  up  the  vassal-summits  and  the  proud  peaks  all 
•   around  ; 

And  a  thrill  of  mystic  glory 

Quivers  on  the  glaciers  hoary, 
As  the  ecstasy  is  full,  and  the  mighty  brow  is  crowned  : 

Crowned  with  ruby  of  resplendence, 

In  unspeakable  transcendence, 
'Neath  a  canopy  of  purple  and  of  gold  outsj^read, 

With  rock-sceptres  upward  pointing. 

While  the  glorious  anointing 
Of  the  consecrating  sunlight  is  poured  upon  his  head. 

Then  a  swift  and  still  transition 

Falls  upon  the  gorgeous  vision, 
And  the  ruby  and  the  fire  pass  noiselessly  away ; 

But  the  paling  of  the  splendor 

Leaves  a  rose-light  clear  and  tender, 
And  lovelier  than  the  loveliest  dream  that  melts  Before 
the  day. 

Oh  to  keep  it,  oh  to  hold  it, 
While  the  tremulous  rays  enfold  it  ! 
Oh  to  drink  in  all  the  beauty,  and  never  thirst  again  ! 


i86  THE  MOUXTAINS. 

Yet  less  lovely  if  less  fleeting  ! 
For  the  mingling  and  the  meeting 
Of  the  wonder  and  the  rapture  can  but  overflow  in  pain. 

It  is  passing,  it  is  passing  ! 

While  the  softening  glow  is  glassing 
In  the  crystal  of  the  heavens  all  the  fairest  of  its  rose  ; 

Ever  faintly  and  more  faintly, 

Ever  saintly  and  more  saintly, 
Gleam  the  snowy  heights  around  us  in  hohest  repose. 

O  pure  and  perfect  whiteness  ! 

O  mystery  of  brightness 
Upon  those  still  majestic  brows  shed  solemnly  abroad ! 

Like  the  calm  and  blessed  sleeping 

Of  saints  in  Christ's  own  keeping, 
When  the  smile  of  holy  peace  is  left,  last  witness  for 
their  God. 

Frances   Ridley  Havergal. 


SUNSET    ON    THE    BEARCAMP. 

A    GOLD  fringe  on  the  purpling  hem 
-^^  Of  hills  the  river  runs, 
As  down  its  long  green  valley  falls 

The  last  of  summer's  suns. 
Along  its  tawny  gravel-bed 

Broad-flowing,  swift,  and  still, 
As  if  its  meadow  levels  felt 

The  hurry  of  the  hill, 
Noiseless  between  its  banks  of  green 


From  curve  to  curve  it  slips  ; 
The  drowsy  maple-shadows  rest 
Like  fingers  on  its  lips. 


SCrXSET  ox   TI/E  HEARCAMP.  1S7 

A  waif  from  Carroll's  wildest  hills, 

Unstoricd  and  unknown: 
The  ursine  le<;cnd  of  its  name 

Prowls  on  its  hanks  alone. 
Vet  flowers  as  f.iir  its  slopes  adorn 

As  ever  Yarrow  knew, 
Or,  under  rainy  Irish  skies, 

By  Spenser's  Mullaj]^rew; 
And  through  the  gaps  of  leaning  trees 

Its  mountain  cradle  shows  ; 
The  gold  against  the  amethyst, 

The  green  against  the  rose. 

Touched  by  a  light  that  hath  no  name, 

A  glory  never  sung. 
Aloft  on  sky  and  mountain  wall 

Are  God's  great  pictures  hung. 
How  changed  the  summits  vast  and  old  ! 

No  longer  granite-browed, 
They  melt  in  rosy  mist  ;  the  rock 

Is  softer  than  the  cloud  : 
The  valley  holds  its  breath  ;  no  leaf 

Of  all  its  elms  is  twirled  : 
The  silence  of  eternity 

Seems  falling  on  the  world. 

The  pause  before  the  breaking  seals 

Of  mystery  is  this  ; 
Yon  miracle-play  of  night  and  day 

Makes  dumb  its  witnesses. 
What  unseen  altar  crowns  the  hills 

That  reach  up  stair  on  stair  ? 
What  eyes  look  through,  what  white  wings  fan 

These  purple  veils  of  air  ? 


THE  MOUNTAINS. 

What  Presence  from  the  heavenly  heights 
To  those  of  earth  stoops  down  ? 

Not  vainly  Hellas  dreamed  of  gods 
On  Ida's  snowy  crown  ! 

Slow  fades  the  vision  of  the  sky, 

The  golden  water  pales, 
And  over  all  the  valley-land 

A  gray-winged  vapor  sails. 
I  go  the  common  way  of  all ; 

The  sunset  fires  will  burn, 
The  flowers  will  blow,  the  river  flow, 

When  I  no  more  return. 
No  whisper  from  the  mountain  pine 

Nor  lapsing  stream  shall  tell 
The  stranger,  treading  where  I  tread, 

Of  him  who  loved  them  well. 

But  beauty  seen  is  never  lost, 

God's  colors  all  are  fast ; 
The  glory  of  this  sunset  heaven 

Into  my  soul  has  passed,  — 
A  sense  of  gladness  unconfined 

To  mortal  date  or  clime  ; 
As  the  soul  liveth,  it  shall  live 

Beyond  the  years  of  time. 
Beside  the  mystic  asphodels 

Shall  bloom  the  home-born  flowers. 
And  new  horizons  flush  and  glow 

With  sunset  hues  of  ours. 

Farewell !  these  smiling  hills  must  wear 
Too  soon  their  wintry  frown, 


QUIET  WATERS.  1S9 

And  snow-cold  winds  from  off  them  shake 

The  maple's  red  leaves  down. 
But  I  shall  see  a  summer  sun 

Still  setting  broad  and  low  ; 
The  mountain  slopes  shall  Mush  and  bloom, 

The  golden  water  flow. 
A  lover's  claim  is  mine  on  all 

I  see  to  have  and  hold,  — 
The  rose-light  of  perpetual  hills, 

And  sunsets  never  cold  ! 

J.    G.     W'llITTlHR. 


QUIET   WATERS. 

r\    RAINBOW,  Rainbow,  on  the  livid  height, 
^-^   Softening  its  ashen  outlines  into  dream, 
Dewy  yet  brilliant,  delicately  bright 

As  pink  wild-roses'  leaves,  — why  dost  thou  gleam 
So  beckoningly  ?     Whom  dost  thou  invite 

Still  higher  upward  on  the  bitter  quest .'' 
What  dost  thou  promise  to  the  we.iry  sight 

In  that  strange  region  whence  thou  issuest  ? 
Speakest  thou  of  pensive  runlets  by  whose  side 
Our  dear  ones  wander  sweet  and  gentle-eyed, 

In  the  soft  dawn  of  a  diviner  Day  .'* 
Art  thou  a  promise  ?     Come  those  hues  and  dyes 
Froni  heavenly  Meads,  near  which  thou  dost  arise, 

Iris'd  from  (2uiet  Waters,  far  away  ? 

Robert  Bi'Chwa.v. 


190  THE  MOUNTAINS. 


SUNSET   THOUGHTS. 

(~\  SUNLIT  hills  !  that  in  your  rocky  deeps 

^-^   Hold  secrets  from  our  science  hid  away, 
Lifting  your  voiceless  ridges  'gainst  the  day 

Slow  dying  in  the  west,  —  calm  day  that  sleeps 

In  your  dark  hollows,  crowns  your  stony  brows 
With  light  so  living  that  its  touch  must  wake 
Your  rocks  to  speech,  your  mighty  silence  break,  — 

From  your  long  centuries  of  rest,  arouse  ! 

Speak  words  of  strength  !  for  have  ye  not  been  given 

Justice  for  all  the  peoples,  and  God's  Peace  ? 

Our  souls  are  weary,  and  we  crave  release 
From  the  drear,  endless  war  of  good  and  ill. 
Rest  from  ourselves  ;  one  living  breath  of  heaven. 

That  shall  our  silent  hearts  with  peace  and  loving  fill. 

Arouse,  great  hills  !     The  day  is  dying  fast. 

Cold  grow  your  shadows,  and  the  heavens'  light, 
Deepening  in  death  along  each  basking  height. 

Soon  from  your  silent  fastness  will  have  passed. 

When  stern,  and  cold,  and  dumb,  your  forms  shall  rise 
As  in  your  hearts  of  stone  ye  held  no  faith  ; 
As  if  for  us  who  long  for  purer  breath 

Ye  held  no  loving  message  from  the  skies. 

O  soul  !  my  soul !  God's  light  shines  down  on  thee, 

Thy  morn  and  eve  begin  in  shade  to  blend. 

Thy  day  so  softly  shadowed  nears  its  end : 

Speak  !  ere  the  light  be  gone,  of  love  and  peace, 
Thy  message  give,  nor  cold  and  silent  be,  — 

One  word  may  give  one  soul   from  weary  thoughts 
release. 


BENE  Die  T/OX.  1 9 1 

Arouse,  my  soul  !  now,  while  the  li^'ht  is  thine  ; 
The  day  is  passing,  and  last  comes  the  night 
When  only  shadows  on  thy  utmost  height 

Shall  fall,  where  lingereth  now  God's  sweet  sunshine. 

Speak!  with  the  living  breath  that  thee  is  lent 
Not  for  thyself  alone.  Some  soul  may  wait. 
Craving  the  message  that  thou  giv'st  so  late,  — 

Thou  and  the  mountains  in  one  silence  blent! 

While  over  both  glow  warm  the  illumined  skies  — 

The  mountains'  peace  and  thine  beyond,  above  — 

Bathed  in  illimitable  depths  of  Love  ! 

Only  that  Peace  the  yearning  heart  can  fill, 
Only  that  Love  for  heaven-born  soul  suffice. — 

O  gracious  skies,  bend  down  !  O  hills,  O  soul,  be  still ! 

E.  w.  c 


BENEDICTION. 

/'"^AZE  on  those  skies  at  once  o'er  all  the  earth 
^-^    Dissolving  in  a  bath  of  purple  dews, 
And  spread  thy  soul  abroad  as  widely  forth 

Till  Love  thy  soul,  as  Heaven  the  snows,  suffuse. 
Gaze,  gaze  on  Heaven  ;  and  mark,  his  clouds  among, 

The  Sun,  emerging  in  his  luminous  might : 
Gaze  on  the  Earth  ;  and  mark,  o'er  all,  Mont  Blanc 

Answering  that  sinking  orb  with  light  for  light: 
He  sinks  —  is  set  —  but  upwards  without  end 

Two  mighty  beams,  diverging. 
Like  hands  in  benediction  raised,  extend  ; 
From  the  great  deep  a  crimson  mist  is  surging  ; 

The  peaks  all  round  are  funeral  pyres 

On  which  the  flaming  day  expires  ; 


192  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Strange  gleams,  each  moment  ten  times  bright, 

Shoot  round,  transfiguring  as  they  smite 

All  spaces  of  the  empyreal  height  — 
Deep  gleams,  high  words  which    God   to   man  doth 
speak ; 

From  peak  to  solemn  peak  in  order  driven 
They  speed.  —  A  loftier  vision  dost  thou  seek? 

Rise  then  — to  Heaven  ! 

Aubrey  de  Verb. 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS. 


Alexander,  C.  F.,  138. 
Alger,  William  RounsevIUe,  12. 
Allingham,  William,  25,  129. 
Ames,  Charles  Gordon,  174. 
Arnold,  Matthew,  127. 

Betham-Edvvards,  M.,  86. 
Boyesen,  Hjalmar  Hjorth,  157. 
Brackett,  Anna  C,  120. 
Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett,  88, 

106. 
Browning,  Robert,  61,  152. 
Bryant,  William  C,  103. 
Buchanan,  Robert,  34,  52,  78,  189. 
Burbidge,  Thomas,  S3. 
Byron,  George  Gordon,  Lord,  39, 

68. 

Calderon  (D.    F.    McCarthy, 

Translator),  172. 
Camoens,  Luis  de(i\Iickle,  Trans- 
lator), 113. 
Campbell,  Alice,  51. 
Chadwick,  John  White,  171,  iSo. 
Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  36,  98. 
Cooke,  Rose  Terry,  173. 
Craik,  Dinah  Maria  Mulock,  131, 

167. 
E.  W.  C,  96,  190. 

Eliot,  George,  113. 
Elliott,  Thomas,  162. 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  69,  70. 


Faber,  Frederick  William,  45,  57, 

'03,  17.^.  '75- 
Eraser's  Magazine,  90. 

Gannett,  William  Channing,  16. 
"  Good  Words,"  116. 

Hamerton,  Philip  Gilbert,  79,  80. 

Harte,  Bret,  93. 

Havergal,  Frances  Ridley,  184. 

Hemans,  Felicia,  147. 

H.  H.,  154. 

Hogg,  James,  109. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  35- 

Hunt,  Leigh,  134. 

Italicus,    Silius    (Sir    C.     Elton, 
Translator),  136. 

Keble,  John,  19. 

Larcom,  Lucy,  13,  57. 
Longfellow,    Henry   Wadsworth, 

22,  44,  92. 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  107,  162. 

Metastasio    (F.   Hemans,   Trans- 
lator), 105. 
Miller,  Joaquin,  32,  89. 
Murray,  Rev.  Dr.,  87. 
R.  M.,'  99- 

Onomacritus      (Sir      C.     Elton, 
Translator),  124. 

Petrarch  (Dacre,  Translator),  149. 
Procter,  Adelaide  Anne,  141,  183. 


194 


IiYDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Pychowska,   Lucia  Duncan,  94, 
179. 

Rogers,  Samuel,  119,  122. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  29,  72,  75,  126. 
Shakspeare,  William,  43. 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  6s,  82. 
Sigourney,  Lydia  Huntley,  104. 
Sjogren,  E.,  170. 
Sterling,  John,  20,  87. 
Stoiy,  William  W.,  64,  loi,  124. 
Southey,  Robert,  74. 

Tannahill,  Robert,  161. 
Taylor,  Bayard,  21,  63,  164. 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  33,  80, 


"The  Month,"  iiS. 
Thomson,  J.,  46. 
Trench,  Richard  Chenevix,  60,  62, 
178. 

Vaughan,  Henry,  81. 

Vera,  Aubrey  de,  16,  18,  191. 

Vere,  Sir  Aubrey  de,  79. 

Whitman,  Sarah  Helen,  85. 
Whitney,  Adeline  D.  T.,  95. 
Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  11,  53, 

no,  186. 
Wilson,  John,  30. 
Wordsworth,  William,  15,  48,  49. 
Worthington,  Jane  T,  168. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


PACE 

Across  my  road  a  mountain  rose  of  rock ii;^ 

A  gold  fringe  on  the  purpling  hem iS6 

Ah !   welcome  if  thou  bring ^o 

All  hail  to  our  mountain  I  form  well  known 25 

All  men  speak  ill  of  thee,  unlucky  tree 103 

Alone,  without  a  friend  or  foe 101 

Along  the  scholar's  glowing  page iSo 

Among  the  far  gray  mountains 118 

A  morn  in  Oregon !  the  kindled  camp 32 

Around  whose  hoar  and  mighty  head 89 

A  step 49 

A  sun-burst  on  the  Bay  !     Turn  and  behold 79 

As  when  unto  a  mother,  having  chid 62 

At  morning  I  stood  on  the  mountain's  brow 170 

A  turn,  and  we  stand  in  the  heart  of  things 152 

Behold,  slow-settling  o'er  the  lurid  grove 46 

Bird  of  the  wilderness loj 

But  what  need  have  I  of  pictures  on  my  walls 124 

By  many  a  bard  in  Celtic  tongue 29 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain 13S 

By  scattered  rocks  and  turbid  waters  shifting 93 

Centuries  old  are  the  mountains 22 

Clear,  placid  Leman  !    thy  contrasted  lake 39 

Climbing  the  mountain's  shagg>' crest 171 

Come  with  me  to  the  mountain,  not  where  rocks 113 

Deep  set  in  distant  seas  it  lies 1^7 

Deep  within  a  narrow  valley  lies  a  busy  little  town 116 

Down  the  steep  path  we  wound  with  careful  tread 120 

Early  had  he  learned 15 


196 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  IINES. 


PACK 

Fair  are  thy  sunset  hues,  thy  dark  brow  blessing 168 

Fair  was  that  eve,  as  if  from  earth  away 87 

Far  up  on  Katahdin  thou  towerest 107 

From  hill  to  hill  I  roam,  from  thought  to  thought 149 

Gaze  on  those  skies  at  once  o'er  all  the  earth 191 

Girt  round  wuth  rugged  mountains 141 

God  ploughed  one  day  with  an  earthquake 16 

Green  the  land  is  where  my  daily 88 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 36 

Hast  thou  ever  sat  on  a  mountain-brow 45 

Have  ye  seen  when  spring's  arrowy  summons  goes  right  to  the  aim  61 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain 126 

Higher !  yet  higher  !     Tho'  the  path  is  steep 34 

High  in  the  clefts  of  the  rock,  'mid  the  cedars 94 

Holding  by  this  rude  crag  I  stay  to  listen 57 

Howe' er  the  wheels  of  Time  go  round 21 

I  came  down  rushing  from  the  mountain 99 

I  climbed  the  roofs  at  break  of  day 80 

I  look'd  upon  a  plain  of  green 87 

I  love  to  wander  through  the  woodlands  hoarj' 85 

In  his  own  loom's  garment  dressed 69 

I  scaled  the  hills  ;  no  murky  blot 18 

I  stand  on  high 174 

Is  this  indeed  our  ancient  earth 1'^ 

I  stood  beside  a  pool,  from  whence  ascended 178 

I  stood  upon  the  hills  when  heaven's  wide  arch 44 

It  is  coming,  it  is  coming 1S4 

It  was  a  day  of  shower  and  sun 83 

I  would  I  were  a  painter,  for  the  sake in 

Jorasse  was  in  his  three-and-twentieth  year 122 

Keen  blaws  the  win'  o'er  the  braes  o'  Gleniffer 161 

Like  dreary  prison  walls 1  S3 

Lo !  here  the  gentle  lark,  wearj'  of  rest 43 

Look  down  that  dark  ravine 80 

Meek  dwellers  'mid  yon  terror-stricken  cliffs 104 

'Mid  the  mountains  Euganean 65 

Mountain  gorses,  ever  golden 106 

My  home  was  seated  high  and  fair 164 

My  way  in  opening  dawn  I  took 12 

Night  was  again  descending,  when  my  mule 119 

Nor  fen,  nor  sedge 72 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  197 

PAGE 

Not  from  the  sands  or  cloven  rocks 103 

Now  ends  the  hour's  comiminion,  near  and  liigh 14 

O  dwellers  in  the  valley-land i<^i 

Oh  asketh  thou  of  me 175 

Oh  for  wings,  that  I  might  soar 51 

Oh!  enter  not  yon  shadowy  cave 147 

Oh !  have  you  been  in  Gudbrand's  Dale,  when  Laagen's  miglity  flood  157 

O  hoary  Hills!  though  ye  look  aged,  ye 7S 

Oh  Thou  art  beautiful !  and  Thou  dost  bestow 52 

Oh!  wae's  me  on  gowd,  wi'  its  glamour  and  fame 162 

Once  more,  O  Mountains  of  the  North,  unveil 1 10 

On  tawny  hills  in  faded  splendor  drest 86 

On  the  bare  hill-top  by  the  pine-wood's  edge,  how  joyously  rang  tlie 

noise 90 

O  Rainbow,  Rainbow,  on  the  livid  height      . 189 

O  silent  Hills  across  the  lake 57 

O  sunlit  Hills  !  that  in  your  rocky  deeps 190 

Sacred  to  Cybele  the  whispering  pine 113 

See  ye  not  here  this  rock  some  power  secureth 172 

Slow  toiling  upward  from  the  misty  vale 35 

Sinking,  sinking,  all  the  country  slowly  sank  beneath  the  waves  .     .  79 

Sweete,  sacred  Hill !  on  whose  fair  brow 81 

That  lonely  dwelling  stood  among  the  hills 74 

The  brooklet  came  from  the  mountain 92 

The  harp  at  Nature's  advent  strung 11 

The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night 6S 

The  mountains  stand  about  the  quiet  lake 60 

The  mountain  statelier  lifts  his  blue-veiled  head 14 

Then,  from  the  shore,  the  rocks  and  windy  summits  high  ....  124 

The  orchards  that  climb  the  hillsides 96 

There's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass '  48 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 33 

The  storm  is  past :  the  green  hillside i73 

The  stranger  wandering  in  the  Switzer's  land 173 

1'he  torrent-wave,  that  breaks  with  force 105 

The  western  waves  of  ebbing  day 75 

They  beckon  from  their  sunset  domes  afar 13 

This  is  a  barren,  desolate  scene 64 

Thou,  Lord,  who  rear'st  the  mountains'  height 20 

Through  the  black,  rushing  smoke-crests 127 

Towering  heights  of  Ingall's  River '79 


198  INDEX  OF  FIRST  FINES. 

PAGE 

To  whom  belongs  this  valley  fair 30 

Turbid  with  stones  and  trunks  of  trees,  descends 136 

Unperishing  youth 98 

Up  in  a  wild  where  no  one  comes  to  look 95 

Up  the  airy  mountain 129 

We  stood 82 

We  went 63 

Where  is  thy  favor' d  haunt,  eternal  Voice 19 

White  clouds  whose  shadows  haunt  the  deep 53 

With  a\\-ful  walls,  far  glooming,  that  possess'd 134 

With  face  turned  upward  to  the  changeful  sky 131 

Yon  mountain's  side  is  black  with  night 55 


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HANDY  VOLUME  SERIES. 


HAPPY  THOUGHTS.  By  F.  C.  Burnand.  Price,  in  Cloth, 
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read,  we  laugh  and  we  admire.  Mr.  Burnand  is  so  fertile  in  extravagant  loin- 
edy,  that  we  have  no  other  resource  ;  but,  at  least,  our  laughter  is  genuine. 
We  do  not  feel  ashamed  of  having  been  amused.  There  is  no  p:iinfuT  feeling 
of  humiliation  afterwards,  like  the  '  next  morning'  which  follows  a  revel.  We 
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combined  too  copiously,  but  not  invented.  But  then  he  overlays  thent  with 
such  a  vivid  wealth  of  caricature  that  we  forget  our  first  impression,  and  give 
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er we  ought  to  nuote  or  not  ;  we  find  ourselves  again  reading  and  laughing  : 
and,  after  all,  we  resolve  upon  sending  our  readers  to  the  book  itself,  that  they 
may  read  and  laugh  with  us." 

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"  ^ Haf'py  Thought ! '  'Mr.  Burnand  must  have  said  to  himself  when  he  re- 
printed these  papers  -— '  puzzle  the  critics.'  The  present  critic  confesses  him- 
self puzzled.  There  is  such  a  fund  of  humor  in  every  page  of  the  book  that 
calm  analysis  is  out  of  the  question.  Mr.  Burnand  is  n.it  only  comic,  but  he 
knows  it  and  he  means  it.  He  contrives  the  most  ludicrous  situations  and 
thrusts  his  man  mto  them  simply  to  see  what  he  will  s.iy.  It  is  not  enough 
that  his  man  should  drink  too  much  at  a  club  dinner,  and  take  short-hand  notes 
of  his  inarticulate  phrases,  but  he  must  go  and  have  a  serious  interview  with 
his  '  s'lic'tor,'  merely  in  order  that  his  note-book  may  record  ail  the  stages  in 
the  typical  development  of  drunkenness.  This  interview  with  the  solicitor  is, 
perhaps,  the  most  characteristic  part  of  the  book.  It  is  marked  by  more  than 
Mr  Burnand's  usual  daring.  The  idea  of  a  man  writing  down  in  a  notebook, 
*' Happ  Thght.  —  Go  to  bed  in  my  boots,'  is  not  comic  if  you  try  to  analyze 
it.  But  then  you  don't  analyze  it.  You  accept  it  without  scrutiny.  You 
know  the  whole  thing  is  a  caricature,  and  so  long  as  you  laugh  heartily  you 
don't  ask  whether  this  or  that  detail  is  out  of  drawing.  If  you  did,  the  absurd- 
ity of  a  man  who  can't  speak  plainly  writing  down  his  words  exactly  as  he 
pronounces  them  would  of  course  shock  your  nice  sen.se  of  proportion.  Some- 
how or  other,  it  does  not  shock  ours.  We  are  in  Mr.  Burnand's  hands.  He 
may  do  what  he  likes  with  us." 

From  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"  It  is  a  handsome  little  book,  and  as  good  as  it  is  good-looking.     We  do  not 
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which  sparkles  from  end  to  end  of  Mr.  Burnand's  brochure." 
From   The  London  J\ez'ie7i>. 

"  Mr.  Burnand  is  a  skilled  inventor  of  clever  nonsense,  and  there  is  this 
peculiarity  about  his  fooling  which  distinguishes  it  from  funny  writing  in 
general,  —  he  is  never  vulgar.  A  more  idle  book  could  not,  perhaps,  be  bought, 
or  one  which  a  reader  would  sooner  buy  when  he  or  she  wanted  to  feel  idle. 
It  needs  no  more  effort  to  take  in  what  Mr.  Burnand  wishes  to  say  than  it 

does  to  smoke  a  cigar He  only  aims  to  amuse,  and  he  succeeds 

admirably." 

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a  burlesque  description  of  ''  Bradshaw's  Guide." 

HAPPY   THOUGHT    HALL. 

By  F.  C.  BuRXAXD.  With  One  Hundred  Illustrations  by  the 
Author.    One  volume.    Square  octavo.    Cloth,  neat.    Price  $2.00. 

The  author  continues  in  this  book  his  "Happy  Thought"  vein,  with 
illustrated  descriptions  of  his  characters  and  of  his  new  country-house, 
''  Happy  Thought  Hall." 

♦ 

Mailed,  postpaid,  by  the  publishers, 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS,   Boston. 


